Haven't You Noticed
by Mello's Favorite Reject
Summary: Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.
1. The Pox

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced. The emotion is mine; the pain and fear and confusion… all mine, but you can have them if you wish. Copy them, paste them, steal them. I don't want them. Take them as your own, if only to leave me as a whitened canvas on which to paint life anew.

**Deadicatied to: **-doesn't matter. The person I want to dedicate this to won't read it, but it's for the best, isn't it? Pain, anger, rage, and emotions of the like aren't always welcomed by those who cause them.

**Author's Note: I am formerly known as MMM (MyMello'sMatty) but for disclosed reasons, epiphanies and depressions abound, I've changed my penname to MFR (Mello's Favorite Reject). Thank everyone for their support; reviews are appreciated. Enjoy**

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**The Pox**

Chickenpox. Everyone had it. My older siblings, my cousins, and even kids at school. Their arms, legs, and tummies were decorated with large, itchy, burning red blisters that were gradually turning into scars.

Mom said I would get the itchy blisters too. It was important to catch Chickenpox when we're little.

I spent hours, days, weeks -every waking moment was spent, surrounded by infected children, but… I never caught Chickenpox.

Was I immune to it? Or did the disease reject me? I never knew, and there was no one I could ask.

So, no, I never had the pox, or... haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Short drabble with more to come. Review./**


	2. The xxxx Thing

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced. The emotion is mine; the pain and fear and confusion… all mine, but you can have them if you wish. Copy them, paste them, steal them. I don't want them. Take them as your own, if only to leave me as a whitened canvas on which to paint life anew.

**Author's Note: Thank everyone for their support; reviews are appreciated. Enjoy**

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**The Rape-thing**

Three older sisters, that's what I had; out of four kids, I'd been the youngest. None of my sisters had red hair, but I did; it was odd. Mom and dad didn't have red hair either. Nor my uncles, aunts, or grandparents.

I had to attest my traits to someone.

I made the mistake once, asking mom about my flaming red hair.

She looked at me and said: "Let me tell you a story… about consent, and why it's so important." The tale began with teens and puppy love; it ended with a tragic twist that left my mother (whom, at the time, already had a husband and three healthy kids) was assaulted and left with an unwanted pregnancy.

There was no consent to her getting pregnant.

She was going to get an abortion.

I was going to be her abortion; there was consent in that.

…she didn't get the abortion, and I was the aftermath of disaster. Born with the traits of my mother's assailant, I was the ill reminder of what had happened.

At some point in my youth, I was four or five, still sleeping in a Barney-themed room and secretly stealing my sisters' stuffed animals when I wanted comfort that was not available elsewhere, when there was a big ordeal with Uncle Skip (his real name was Harry, but… we all called him Skip because he owned a boat -I don't know all the details.)

Anyways, my sister was crying, my cousin -Skip's step-daughter, was crying, and my mom was crying. Everyone was crying, but I wasn't crying, and dad was at work so I don't know if he was crying.

But everything seemed like it was falling apart, and I wanted to know why.

So, when mom and the girls locked themselves in a room to talk, I stood just outside the door, ear pressed to the wood as I eavesdropped, catching bits and pieces of what they said.

'touched me privately.' 'hurting.' 'make it stop.' 'all the time.' 'please.' 'don't like it.'

Then, through the thick of tears and sobs, I caught wind of a word I hadn't heard but easily understood.

'Rape.'

There was no consent in rape, I knew this. It was supposed to be wrong, but the allure of innocence and bodily temptations are what provoked it, right?

That thought brewed in my mind for months as accusations were made, authorities were called in, and after many more bouts of crying and court hearings and whatnot, Uncle Skip ended up in prison.

And the tears were replaced by bitter murmurs of: 'only three years? For continuously assaulting children…?'

I didn't understand much at the time, but I knew rape meant that someone wanted you physically, and I grew to wonder why I wasn't wanted. Was I not appealing? Was I not good enough to be hurt? Was there something wrong with me?

My mother, sisters, and cousin were all assaulted, but I was left alone.

I brooded this for years… until my own nonconsensual assault came and, by then, I didn't know if it was consensual or not. After all, I'd wanted it, didn't I?

No… in retrospect, I didn't want it at all, but naiveté and innocence pulled me into the embrace of sin, or... haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Review. Thank you./**


	3. The Freckles

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced. The emotion is mine; the pain and fear and confusion… all mine, but you can have them if you wish. Copy them, paste them, steal them. I don't want them. Take them as your own, if only to leave me as a whitened canvas on which to paint life anew.

**Author's Note: **Thank everyone for their support; reviews are appreciated. Enjoy

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**The Freckles**

I had freckles, russet spots that started on my nose and spanned my cheeks. They were ever-present all the time, but they were more prominent when I spent too much time out in the sun. The sun seemed to bake them into being more noticeable.

As a kid, like all others, I enjoyed my time outside, skipping out to the neighbor's pool, throwing rocks into the small town creek, climbing the large sturdy maples towards the edge of the property, and building a flimsy fort behind the shed.

Yes, even though I had very noticeable freckles, I still did the normal things. I still thought oddly shaped twigs resembled bony hands; I still cowered from the shadows after watching a scary movie.

The epitome of normal. Boring. Simple. Stupid.

And with freckles.

Of all the imperfections for a kid to have, freckles were the worst.

Oddly, I'd never paid them any heed… until the day I sat in the bathroom and watched my sisters apply layers and layers of makeup, covering up what they perceived as hideous deformities.

"Here," the eldest one said, dabbing my cheeks with a powdered sponge.

I grimaced and swatted her hand away. "What's that for?"

"To cover your freckles," she said.

After that, I wiped the makeup off and looked in the mirror, realizing that she was right. The little dots were everywhere… and I hated them.

I rubbed my fingers over them, imagining them to be as nasty as warts on a witch. I couldn't understand where they came from or how long I'd had them, and I found my own finger nails lightly grazing them.

From experience, I'd picked scabs; everyone had done that. The itchy and crusty surface was madness to a child; they had to scratch it, even though it increased the chance of scarring.

Still, it is with my own childish knowledge of scab-picking that I found a solution to my facial imperfections.

First, I waited until late that evening, when I was the only one awake. Then I ventured to the bathroom to peer into the full-length mirror on the hind side of the door. Looking in it, I winced at my reflection, seeing everything all wrong.

My hair was too red; my eyes too wide; my freckles… everywhere.

Placing my fingertips to my nose, I curled them, nails biting my flesh and eyes producing tears as I raked the freckled skin.

This lasted several long and painful minutes until my face was red and raw and bleeding here and there. It was an eyesore, but at least… the freckles weren't visible.

Wiping the blood from my face, I finally ventured to bed, happy to be scabbed rather than freckled.

…in the morning, I'd wake to a new sort of trauma to deal with, but after that little mutilation, I learned to just sneak into my sisters' makeup instead. So, yes, that's what transpired. That's how I decided to make myself pretty. I am pretty, or… haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Review./**


	4. The Whisper

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced. The emotion is mine; the pain and fear and confusion… all mine, but you can have them if you wish. Copy them, paste them, steal them. I don't want them. Take them as your own, if only to leave me as a whitened canvas on which to paint life anew.

**Author's Note: **Thank everyone for their support; reviews are appreciated. Enjoy

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**The Whisper**

Growing up, it was always important to be quiet.

"Use inside-voices, not the ones in your head," mother would say. Of course, this just meant to play quietly and not yell. Y'know, that odd way parents phrase things when you can just tell they're quoting their own parents.

Be quiet. Shhh. Whisper. Daddy's asleep after a hard day's work, don't wake him up. Mommy's got a head ache, keep the noise level to a minimum.

Shhh. Hush. Quiet.

Turn the volume down.

Don't yell. Shhh, don't cry.

Let's play the Quiet Game. The first person who talks is the loser.

We played the Quiet Game a lot. I usually won. If I lost, we started round two. I was too naïve to realize that they just didn't want me around. -No, they didn't mind seeing me, as long as they didn't have to hear me.

They didn't want to deal with me.

Mommy and daddy had friends. My sisters all had friends. I was the outcast, set aside to play games when they wanted to be alone.

My friends would rarely visit, and when they did, we still had to be quiet.

I never understood the importance of being quiet… until it became important.

-My sisters snuck out at all hours of the night, sometimes to party, sometimes to see boys that mom and dad didn't approve of.

I kept quiet.

It was a secret.

Shhhh. Don't tell anyone.

Then one night… one of my sisters didn't come home. Even when morning came, she was gone. I pretended to not know. I pretended to be oblivious.

I kept quiet.

I was winning this Quiet Game.

Days later, we found her on our porch. A stranger had dropped her off. She was black and blue; her face was swollen and there were track marks on her arms and feet.

From drugs.

"Drugs are bad," my parents explained, and I understood.

Rule One: Be quiet. Whisper, if you can.

Rule Two: Don't do drugs. They'll steal you away and return you in shambles.

Things happened. Doctors. More crying.

My sister had been held hostage, raped and forcedly introduced to drugs she didn't want. I stood by her side, silent as an object, wanting to offer support but not being able to.

Even at her side, I was invisible.

Quiet.

-Had I won the Quiet Game again?

When we were all safe at home, more things happened. Dad went to work, and noises came from the outside. Intentionally loud ruckus. Handprints on the windows. Gunshots. Heavy footsteps on the porch. Flashlights glaring at everyone as me, mom, and my sisters grew wary and hid around the corner, clutching one another for dear life -No.

That's not how it was. They cried and prayed and held one another. I sat next to them with a handheld game, squinting to see the dimming screen as I played Boomer.

I wasn't scared. I didn't pray. I wasn't huddled close. I sat aside, with my Gameboy's volume down as I listened to my mom chanting: "Shhh, it's okay. The cops are on their way here. Shhh. Hush. Quiet. Only whisper."

And… I was quiet. I didn't whisper. Didn't say a word. I'm still quiet… or, haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Review./**


	5. The Artist

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced. The emotion is mine; the pain and fear and confusion… all mine, but you can have them if you wish. Copy them, paste them, steal them. I don't want them. Take them as your own, if only to leave me as a whitened canvas on which to paint life anew.

**Author's Note: **Thank everyone for their support; reviews are appreciated. Enjoy

…

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**The Artist**

Every kid, at some point, ends up wanting to be an artist. From the first time they pick up a crayon, they see potential.

Every kid is excited to graduate from crayons to color pencils; it takes longer to color a picture with colored pencils. Colored pencils traditionally come in less colors, but those colors, however few they are, are more vibrant and enticing.

And markers. Everyone loves markers… except parents when you're drawing at the table and the heavy ink seeps through the paper. But markers were washable, so it was okay.

Orange, red, brown, green blue, yellow… -Am I forgetting some?

So many colors, too many for any one child to name, really.

Then school gave us painting. Yes, painting. Finger paints, rich and thick and messy. Finger paints on our digits, palms, arms, faces and desks. Finger paints on everything else when it should have been directed at the paper.

I finger-painted a landscape. My sun was a big yellow blob in the corner with orange and yellow sticks projecting the rays I wanted. I had a blue smiley face on the sun. (The blue and yellow made green, I earnestly noted.) Must've been a good day for the sun to look so happy.-My grass was a flat green line across the bottom, crooked with spikes of lighter green, meant to portray foliage. The blue sky between the grass and sun looked like an ocean, but the m-shaped birds should've made clear what it was supposed to be.

Oh, then water colors. I was terrible with water colors. The colors were too light, and the paint ran amok without my control. Then I made it too dark in some places. Ugh!

I reverted all the way back to crayons, with my Flintstone coloring book.

I liked the Flintstones.

My cousins and I sat together and colored. Brittany was close to my age; her and I tore out pages to color; the edges were jagged but we didn't care. Her younger sister Stephanie got to color a page that was still attached to the book… even though I preferred to do that. -She was a guest, and I was to be a nice host or else they might not visit me again.

Children are fickle like that, always threatening to take away friendship when they knew it meant something to someone.

We colored for what seemed like forever until either finished or bored. Then we took our finished products to show our parents.

Chins high and statures proud, we held our arts up for all to see.

My cousins' parents said: 'how nice.' My mom took a quick look at mine, smiled and said: 'Awe, did Stephanie color that for you?'

I could feel my eyes bulge as I did a double-take towards the picture I colored. I couldn't believe her implication. I'd worked so hard at coloring a picture of Fred, Wilma, Pebbles, BamBam and Dino. Sure, I could've stayed inside the lines better, and Pebbles' hair wasn't supposed to be purple, but I thought it looked better that way.

I looked at little Stephanie, with her scribbled sheet of paper -all orange, no class at all. And I couldn't understand how my own mother could think…-No.

With pursed lips and a heavy heart, I tried not to look disappointed at the lack of praise.

Because I was older than Stephanie; I was better. She wasn't even potty-trained yet, and I'd been a big boy for years now.

My colored picture was better. It really was.

I tried desperately to show mom how good I did. I waved the paper around and pointed frantically at the parts I was particularly fond of, like how Wilma's necklace, which was supposed to be white, was outlined perfectly -except for that little part right there.

But mom just creased her brow and said: 'Oh, it looked like a three year old did it.'

And… that was the last time I colored.

Even on school assignments, I would scrunch up my face and refuse, sometimes bribing my peers to do the coloring for me while I would do their written work in exchange.

I hated coloring.

_"It looked like a three year old did it."_

But I still was an artist at heart, so I turned away from color and onto solid graphite. My unskilled hands groped at pencils and slid the lead across papered surfaces, and I drew pictures. Pretty ones. Of animals with rectangles for legs and thick splotches for eyes; of scribbles for hair on stick-figures, and curved lines for mouths. -My suns didn't have smiley faces in them anymore.

Whenever I drew these pictures, I showed my friends at school; I gave the finished product to the teacher to hang on the cork board in class, but… I never took my art home.

Mom would make fun of it, surely. And then I couldn't be an artist anymore. And then I wouldn't take more art classes and learn to control my mediums and eventually move on to acrylic paints on cotton canvas.

Then my creativity would be smothered, held back and pushed down. It would wither away like a nasty cough-drop, sticky and smelly, drying out your mouth.

Yuck.

I hated cough-drops, except for the Luden's cherry ones; they tasted like candy. Candy was better than cough-drops.

Cough-dropes, the cherry ones, were usually red.

Red was one of three primary colors, which I learned in art class. And though my art would never be good in my mother's eyes, I was still an artist. I still keep an arsenal of supplies, from pencils to paintbrushes, or… haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Tell Matt that he's a good artist. Review./**


	6. The Books

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced. The emotion is mine; the pain and fear and confusion… all mine, but you can have them if you wish. Copy them, paste them, steal them. I don't want them. Take them as your own, if only to leave me as a whitened canvas on which to paint life anew.

**Author's Note: **Thank everyone for their support; reviews are appreciated. Enjoy

…

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**The Books**

It was winter and a storm had seemingly taken over our lives. There had been no electricity for a few days, and even though we piled on layers of clothes and blankets, it was hard to stay warm. We couldn't cook with the stove or oven or microwave. We had no water; the lines were all frozen. Dad was able to go to and from work, but day after day, school was cancelled.

We decided to venture to grandma's house because she had a gas stove, which would provide us with heat and a means of cooking.

Arriving there was nothing special. Watch out for the ice though; stay bundled up, warm. Wipe your shoes on the mat upon entering. Shut the door so the cold doesn't get in.

It was still cold inside the small house, so I didn't see the point of everyone making such a fuss. Stripping from our winter coats and snow boots, my mother, sisters, and I sat on the various pieces of furniture in the family room, in the center of which was a gas stove; it was cylindrical with hot, heated vents that enticed me to go closer though I was warned not to.

I'd get burned if I did.

Grandma was old-fashioned. Her house was decorated in apples, milk tins, mammy-dolls, and roosters. Baskets were everywhere, as were antiques that were never dusted and books that were never opened.

I could never understand someone who lived like that, surrounded by things that they didn't use, didn't need, and simply collected.

-Horrifically, a few of my aunts, uncles, and cousins showed up, all without electricity and deciding to start an unofficial family reunion based on the precedence that we all needed heat and food. (For the record, my grandmother had a total of 8 kids, and each was married with a minimum of two kids and a maximum of seven, so I had a large family…)

Cousin Michelle, that drama queen, with her teenage angst, guy-hopping nature, small chest and big butt - she was constantly drawing attention to herself. 'Jeremy and I are dating again.' 'I got a new swimsuit, but I can't wear it 'til summer.' 'I'm so cold, my fingers are blue.' 'My bra's so uncomfortable.'

Yeah, that's Michelle. Short, blonde, misshapen, and a complete attention-grabber. Even if I tried to ignore her, she called for me to look and listen.

"Wanna hear a story, Matt?" she asked me.

I didn't answer, too busy curling up and rubbing my hands together for added warmth.

_I wish I hadn't forgotten to bring my Gameboy._

She told me a story anyway. It was a horror story about a homosexual man who dated young boys, took them home, chopped them up, and tacked their body parts onto the walls like posters.

I wasn't scared, even when she insisted it was a true story. I was too cold to be scared.

When she noticed that I was unfazed, she made a trip to the bathroom and came back shivering; this is when she told everyone about her blue fingers.

She said she suspected frostbite in her future. (She never got frostbite.)

Then, when she wandered off, I overheard everyone talking about how her shirt sleeves were wet, how she must've did it on purpose. -Michelle always liked attention.

Years later she'd stab Jeremy on a drunken whim and laugh about it later. She wasn't crazy, just incredibly stupid… and maybe lonely.

Thinking on the matter, maybe she wanted attention that she wasn't getting elsewhere.

Then again, that's hardly the point. A little boy like me isn't supposed to step in and solve everyone's problems. It's supposed to be the other way around, isn't it?

But no one helped me, not when I needed it.

-The gas stove came in handy. Grandma used it to make pancakes and grits.

I refused the grits.

I hated pancakes, but this was even worse because she hadn't any syrup.

My sisters gathered 'round Michelle, all giggling and gossiping about the things that teenage girls liked to talk about. As per usual, I sat off to the side, sometimes looking over, listening in, and other times just letting my mind wander… until my attention settled on the large book shelf.

I read at home sometimes, I thought, but my books were all brightly colored with hard covers, large text, and some pictures that popped up. My books were all for children; these books were thick, heavy, with small text and worn paper covers.

Grabbing one from the shelf at random, I slid my hand along the cover, ridding it of dust and reading the delicate print: 'The Lottery Rose.' The cover was of pastel colors, and for the design, the blackened silhouette of a child stood, holding a effervescent rose that stuck out like a sore thumb. Curiously, I opened it to a random page and my eyes took in the words that scrawled along the pages.

There were no pictures. The longer words were harder for me to understand, even with context clues, but in my mind, I deciphered it to the best of my ability.

The story was rather sad, from what I gathered, about a little boy on the wrong side of town, whose mother had problems and step dad was mean enough to beat him with a chair.

It was scary to think about, so I put it back on the shelf and grabbed for another; this one was thick, with a leather-bound cover and embossed writing glossed in gold: 'Holy Bible.'

I was familiar with the godly text; my family used to be avid church-goers. Still, I was disinterested and went to put it back, but before I could, my grandmother spied me and the book.

"That's a very special book you have there," she said.

I only shrugged and said: "No pictures." Yes, I was a big boy, but I still enjoyed the pictures in books, and I really didn't want to read the silly bible.

Laughing in the way that old ladies cackle, she slapped her thigh with a callous hand and pointed to a box in the corner. "I'm sure you'll find some pretty good picture books in there."

"Like what?" I asked, already scampering to the box, thinking about Dr Seuss books, Elves and the Shoemaker, The Steadfast Tin Soldier, and other children's classics my mom and I used to read together… y'know, when she had time.

Imagine my surprise when I tear into the box and find… encyclopedias. There's a faint amount of discontent until I dip my hands in and retrieve a book that wasn't quite like the others. The cover was torn n places, pages were upturned or dog-eared, and it was in terrible condition, but the colors -oh the colors! Eagerly, my fingers pulled back the cover, and… before I knew it, I was reading Mario comics.

I'd already beaten Super Mario Brothers one, two, and three, and I'd seen the poorly done live-action movie, so finding a comic was bliss in its own right.

By the time I got through it, I'd completely forgotten the cold; I forgot about the dry, tasteless pancakes; I'd forgotten the way my cousin Michelle pined for attention in trivial ways; and… everything was okay.

I was so proud to have finished reading it so quickly, I wondered if grandma might let me keep it. Surely it was unloved, sitting in a box of encyclopedias. Perhaps it was fate, leaving it for me to find. Waiting for me to take it and love it. Maybe it was meant… for me.

The thought was silly, yes, but… to someone who has everything they don't need, and none of the consideration they crave, it meant something.

Like a young adult, I often looked for meaning, even when there wasn't one. Like when sinners turned to God for redemption they didn't deserve, it was like that.

Look for imaginary things to justify what we want.

That's normal, isn't it? Everyone does it, right?

At school, Jeffrey teased me because I had a better pencil box. Tessa and Chelsea pushed me around on the playground because I could tie my shoes so fast and blow big bubbles with gum. Johnny and Tori hit me with plastic ball bats because… -Okay, so I don't know why, but that's not the point.

What I'm getting at is that everyone looks for means of rationalization, justification.

-I did ask grandma about keeping the comic book, but she simply said: "why don't you keep it here? Then you can read it when you visit…"

And just like that, I put the book back into the box and decided to occupy myself another way.

I wasn't supposed to go upstairs because it was much colder, blocked off to keep the heat in the downstairs area. I went upstairs anyways. I was stunned by the way I froze so quickly, but I was even more surprised when I caught sight of the window.

Even upstairs, the snow was piled so high, the window was blocked by thick, white sheets. It was solid. The very idea made me shiver despite already being so cold. Still, I averted my attention and looked around, finding myself in my grandparents' room.

-That fact alone made me question the whereabouts of my grandpa. I pushed the thought aside and decided to explore. Being a kid in a house of whining, complaining, freezing adults and older cousins and sisters, there wasn't much else to do.

I didn't find anything interesting so I ventured to the window once more, staring at the awful snow that made us leave home.

-Three days passed, and it felt so much longer than that.

I was once again rifling through the books, silently listening to the conversations everyone else was having around me.

For some reason, this always happened. Mom showed me off to everyone when it was convenient, like I was a trophy or decorative ornament, but any other time, I could be found alone, off to the side, part of the family but never part of the conversation.

Never part of their little groups.

Bound by blood and nothing more.

In many ways, I was this old box of books, set aside and waiting to be sorted through, waiting for my covers to be dusted and pages to be read. I was a book. A colorful one. A comic book.

A comic book amongst a series of unread encyclopedias.

-Eventually, that nasty pile of snow outside the window on the second floor melted, shedding light on what had transpired.

Trees were uprooted or knocked down, big ones, some blocking roadways. Power lines were being resurrected by men in bright orange and yellow clothes with reflector tape. Cars were piled in the streets, built-up traffic full of citizens awaiting the chance to go home.

And like so many others, my family and I departed from grandma's small, cramped home in favor of heading back to our humble abode.

Once we made it home, we were pleased to find the electricity back on. The heat was welcomed, and the first thing we did is strip down to one layer of clothing. Then, there was a line for the single bathroom we shared, but I wasn't part of that line, no.

Instead, I ran straight to my room and, when I was sure that I was alone, I unsheathed that comic book from beneath my sweater where it had been hidden.

I'd stolen it, yes, but… to be fair, it wouldn't be missed, and I wanted it.

I hid it in my pillowcase and flung myself onto the bed, smiling, because I felt that I had done something great. I had plucked an orphaned comic from a dusty bin and saved it from neglect.

I'd treasure the comic; no one would miss it. No one paid it any attention. No one cared.

That thought makes my smile fade; my chest ached. Because I'm just as disposable and forgettable as that comic book… or, haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Review./**


	7. The Maceus

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **I can't thank my readers/reviewers/supporters enough. If it's any consolation, things are progressing in a (hopefully) positive direction. I'm going to continue this fic, but we can also expect updates on Itch Fit, so that's something to look forward to. Thanks for everything, and I hope you enjoy the childhood angst I'm writing.

…

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**The Maceus**

I looked normal most days, but sometimes, my naturally pale skin would look more yellow than peach, and my eyes would have purple circles around them even when I had plenty of sleep. This was one of those days when I looked sick, really sick; and I felt tired, really tired.

It hurt to move; I could sit up with a mild strain, but even lifting my arms was out of the question. Mommy looked me over and felt under my arms; it was uncomfortable, and when she applied pressure, more pain shot through me.

She said my lymph nodes were swollen. I just nodded to her and tried to keep from moving too much. She called me off school and scheduled an appointment while I stayed in my room to play Nintendo. Yes, Mortal Kombat! I loved playing as Sub Zero or Scorpion! And Raiden, he was so cool too!

I'd get my hands on that controller, and the rest of the world wouldn't exist anymore. I had to reduce my opponent's health bar to zero, and right before that, I had to get them with a Fatality!

Absorbed in my game, fighting the CP and moving through the rankings provided, I hardly noticed when mom yelled for me to get dressed and grab my jacket.

After yelling a few more times, she had to come get me personally, turning my game off and causing me to gape at her in disbelief, as if she'd grown a second head or a third eye. Still, I voided my Looney Tunes pajamas and replaced them with a nice plaid shirt tucked into a pair of pants that my mother deemed acceptable. Once dressed, socks and shoes on my feet as well, I pulled on my jacket and buttoned up.

Mom always warned me to button up when I was sick, and to wear a hat because heat escapes through your head and feet… or, something like that.

All dressed and ready, my Uncle Ray came to pick me and mom up because she didn't drive and dad was at work, as he usually was.

The drive to the doctor's office was nothing special; I was buckled up with my head leaning against the door frame, eyes closed as I pretended to sleep. The bumps in the road combined with the poor shocks in the old beat-up S-10 made any form of rest hard; in fact, it resulted in a headache.

We pulled in and all headed inside, mom holding my hand as she dragged me across the lot like a helpless toddler. Normally, I wouldn't complain, but it hurt to lift my arm, let alone be dragged by it. And what's more, my hips were starting to hurt with every step I took; I started limping to compensate for the pain.

We walked in. Uncle Ray took a seat and grabbed a Reader's Digest; I sat next to him and slumped into the hard chair while mom signed in and spoke with an obese receptionist.

Then mom went to the ladies' restroom, and I kept stealing glances at my uncle, noticing off handedly that he had red hair, just like mine, but I chose not to think further on it, closing my eyes and trying to ignore the horrible scent of vomit and disinfectant that can be found in most doctor offices.

Mom came back smelling faintly of hand sanitizer and perfume.

Opening my eyes to look at her, I can't help noticing the sheer number of people in the small office.

Mom notices too, I assume, because after a quick glance around, her hands are on me, one feeling my forehead for an imaginary fever and the other running through my hair. "Poor baby, you're sick, huh?" She was using that sickeningly sweet voice that new parents use on their infants. She only does this in public.

She's playing a role, acting, I know. She's not this clingy and compassionate towards me, but I enjoy the attention so I move to sit in her lap.

This continues until the other patients have their turn with the doctor and leave, and when the room is cleared, she ushers me off her lap and tells me to sit down.

It was a good show; I almost believed the affection. Still, I don't comment; never can I tell her that I'm smart enough to know what she's up to.

She'd be upset with me, I'm sure, and no kid wants that.

Dad's never home, so I rely on mom. To make her angry is the ultimate offense.

-It's finally our turn to see the doctor. Mom says his name is Maceus. The nurse sees us first, checking my weight, blood pressure, temperature, and everything else she's supposed to. She writes things down on her little clipboard, and then we wait for the doctor.

When the nurse is gone and the doctor comes in, the first thing I register is fear. He's tall and domineering; his very presence is commanding, and it's scary. He asks me to strip down, and I instinctively cling to mom.

He laughs when he notices; he has a deep voice. "Not to worry," he says calmly, "I just need to look him over and make certain there are no injuries or…-" _He speaks to mom instead of me, and I don't like that. There is no reassurance in dismissing me in such a way._

He doesn't finish his sentence, but the implications are clear. My mind conjures images of abuse; things he might see on children who limp in and have trouble moving their arms. Mom tries to assure me as I modestly turn my back to them. As timid as any rape-victim, I took off my clothes, stopping when I was down to my socks and underwear.

When I turned to face them, mostly bare, I felt shame, embarrassment, and humiliation. This was the first time a doctor made me do this, so it was understandable that I'd suffer discomfort.

Mom didn't seem to notice how awful I felt.

The doctor didn't either. He simply told me to lay on the mobile bed and hold still. I did as told and closed my eyes, shuddering when I felt his hands on my neck, throat, underarms, and thighs. His fingers rubbed, touched, pressed. His ministrations were unwelcome but they didn't last long.

When he gave me a verbal confirmation to get up and get dressed, I did. He and mom exchanged some babble, and I only caught a few words here and there, but… they soon explained that I couldn't go home right away. I was to see an oncologist -a blood specialist. (My childish brain conjured up a vampire, with large fangs and a cape.)

Something was wrong with my blood, and they hadn't a clue what it was.

-I spent over a week in the hospital, losing weight since I wouldn't eat the foul foods they offered. Blood tests were done almost every day, and yes, I was afraid of needles… but mom made a game out of it.

_Watch the clock, see how long it takes for the tubes to fill up. That's it, watch._

And I did watch. After the first two days, I watched with anticipation as the needle bit my skin like a tiny, metal snake, slithering into my skin and sucking out my own venom.

The tubes were filled with red.

By the end of the week, I was as sick as ever, on antibiotics and being pumped full of iron because nothing matched up. My iron levels were too low, practically nonexistent, and my red and white cells were attacking each other; the white cells were winning, thinning out the blood too much.

I was diagnosed with Thalassemia.

It's a rare blood disorder, common in those found near the Mediterranean - _thank you, heritage_. Basically, it makes my insides weak due to such a high white blood count and a low red blood count. My immunity is low; I bruise easily, and my blood's thin; once I get any form of laceration, it can take four or five times as long to heal as it normally would, and… that's if I don't get a blood infection. If a blood infection occurs, a transfusion will be necessary.

The words alone were frightening to think about, even though I didn't quite understand what a blood transfusion was.

Mom cried.

Everyone always cried, it seemed; it became annoying after a while, but I was too nice to say anything. Instead, I either quietly played a game, or I offered a hug; that's the most any child could do.

Still, mom and Maceus talked a bit about precautions, medications, and ways to keep my iron levels normal.

I didn't pay much attention, especially when I caught on to the fact that there was a long list of things I wouldn't be allowed to do.

-Doctor Maceus gave me a bunch of stickers for good behavior and, fully clothed, I was free to go.

Mom talked to Uncle Ray on the drive home, possibly about the doctor visit, possibly about other things; I just sat there peeling and replacing stickers onto my arms and shirt, like all kids do when presented with a sticker collection.

The stickers ranged from positive phrases like: 'Way To Go!' to simple pictures of animals, stars, or sports equipment.

We got home and… things were normal -oh, wait, no they weren't.

I took my new medicine; it tasted terrible. We were going to get pizza, but apparently I had to be put on a strict diet to increase the iron in my blood; so… I had to eat something bland called lentils. And it wasn't just for that meal. Two meals a day, every day.

Eating became a chore.

Back at school, the afternoon recess, during which we were allowed to play outside on the playground, lost its luster.

Other kids played; I was benched because the teachers feared a lawsuit if I were to get injured.

To watch my friends on the merry-go-rounds, monkey bars, soccer field, basketball court, and jungle gym, it was unfair. All I could do was sit there or play inside, and they only had puzzles inside. I didn't like puzzles unless they were virtual and came with a reward.

Even on field trips… when we visited historical sites and participated in various activities to make learning fun… I wasn't permitted to join the fun. It was simply a bus ride, a long walk, and a boring lecture.

So, life became a routine; wake up. Lentils. Clean clothes. Go to school. Do my work. Lunch. Watch my friends forget my existence and play without me. More school work. Come home. Yucky lentils again. Snack. Videogames. Bed. Repeat.

I was passed around between people who had their own agendas, none of which involved myself for more than a brief period of time.

An assembly line of sorts.

I was a defective product, never truly mended and never really desired.

My pain wasn't usually acknowledged, and if it was, it brought tears to those I cared for. It wasn't fair that there wasn't a medium for me.

I just wanted my dad to hug me once in a while; mom to let me watch her cook; my sisters to play with me; my teachers and friends to remember me at the end of the day; and life to consist of something more than it did.

I was a simple child, even if I was sickly with bad blood and a doctor that made me strip down to my underwear, or… haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Review./**


	8. The Zoo

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced. The emotion is mine; the pain and fear and confusion… all mine, but you can have them if you wish. Copy them, paste them, steal them. I don't want them. Take them as your own, if only to leave me as a whitened canvas on which to paint life anew.

**Author's Note: **Here's a chapter about Matt at the zoo. The chapter after this one will include Mello's introduction to Matt's life.

**Note: **Didn't proofread.

…

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**The Zoo**

Summer vacation was cool, no school, but I started getting bored. You know how it is when you cram three months' worth of fun into the first two weeks of no-school.

Mom and dad were talking about having a big to-do, whatever that means. From what I heard, we all might go to an amusement park or something. That would be fun, but… I'd be too short for most of the rides, even if I stood on my tippy-toes.

After a bit more talking, mom and dad finally decided that a trip to the zoo would be better. Cheaper. Easier for a family of six.

My three older sisters were unenthused, but I got excited. I'd never been to the zoo before -well, okay, mom insisted that I had, but I was too young to remember. But still, it was exciting! Mom made a big deal about the bears and the alligators, but that kinda disappointed me.

"But ma," I whined like all children do, elongating my vowels and pulling out the puppy-eyed expression, pouting. "Ma, I've seen bears on tv, and we _have _an alligator!" And that's right, we did. A Caimin Alligator, just over a foot long and in a large, custom-built tank with heat rocks, an oasis of both land and water, and… we fed it rats and krill. We bought feeder-rodents, dirt cheap from the pets store; we kept them in small plastic cages and kept them alive long enough to drop them into the gator's tank. It was always a bloody mess to see those lightning-fast jaws clamp around the furry critter's body and drag it into the water, drowning it with what dad called the Death-Roll. Blood diffused in the water and the gator climbed onto the rocks to finish its meal.

-Yes, we had a gator. Dad's fascination with wildlife had landed us a series of interesting pets: tarantulas, iguanas, various monster-fish, some as long as 3 feet; crabs, chinchillas, echidnas, dogs, cats, hamsters, ferrets, birds, and some kind of African Water Frogs.

Adventurous as it might sound, we never kept the exotic animals long, so it wasn't a big deal. And the domesticated animals had to go because of my allergies. _(One infected scratch from a Chihuahua had landed me in the hospital, so…-)_

-But the zoo, of course, it could be fun. There were bound to be cool things there. So we all got dressed and piled into the modest family car. The car was only meant to hold five, but… we piled six people in: mom and dad were up front while my three sisters and I were in the back; since I was the smallest, I sat on the lap or Jen (my eldest sister), and when dad noticed a cop, I had to duck down because it was frowned upon to have more people than seatbelts in a vehicle.

Without getting in trouble, we made it to the zoo, parked, and hurried out. Dad handled the money and ticket stuff while I held mom's hand and waited to see the animals. My sisters all loafed about animatedly, sometimes using a falsely peppy voice to tell me how much fun we were going to have.

My hand grew sweaty from mom's grasp before we even got inside, and I tried to pull away but she refused to let go. She turned her gaze at me and gave _the look_. You know the one. Her lips thinned, her nostrils flared indignantly, her brows creased and her eyes taking on that glint of frustration…

Without words, she was able to tell me not to misbehave. One wrong move, and we'd have to go home early.

So, I continued to hold my mommy's hand, even though my fingers were slick with sweat and I felt a little silly, too old to need to hold my mom's hand.

-Still, we ventured to the Reptile House first, and I was excited. The small venomous snakes didn't catch my interest, but the 13 foot python did. "Mommy, I want one," I said, like all kids do when they see something neat. But she just shook her head and ushered me to the next part of the exhibit. "A small one?" I tried, pointing to another snake. She simply gave me the signal to hush and my spirits deflated.

Then we saw turtles! Sure, I'd seen small ones, but these were 70 and 80 pounds, so huge! I opened my mouth to say I wanted one, but I stopped the words from coming, knowing mom would just deny me.

Skinks and lizards, and even some crocs and gators, it was neat.

Then the rodents. Everything from Red Kangaroo Rats that hopped on two legs, to long-eared rabbits. Nothing special. All mice looked alike to me, and I'd had rabbits before. Two of them, named Cadbury and Marshmallow. Both got loose outside; Cadbury was dead on the road; Marshmallow went into the wild to make babies..

Finally, we got to see some cool things. Really cool. Like, cats bigger than any dog! It was kinda like watching the movie Jungle Book, but real. Tigers. I saw tigers. Five of them! Two large ones and some cubs. Then Hyenas; I loved the Spotted Hyenas because of Ed, Shenzy, and Bonzai from the Lion King. (I watched a lot of Disney movies.) Oh, and the lions; though I didn't like them as much as the tigers. Then the panthers -okay, so big cats were getting monotonous.

Then the big dogs. Wolves and Coyotes. Again, I got bored quickly.

And the bears.

_Yawn._

Then the petting-zoo. I wanted nothing to do with these animals. Mom got pictures of me feeding the friendly critters, and I just wanted to go home and play Pagemaster on Nintendo. Boomer. Kid Icarus. Donkey Kong Country. Mickey Mouse Mania. Super Mario Brothers 3. Mystic Quest. Etc.

The zoo was boring, and I was getting tired of walking from place to place.

I pulled mom aside and told her I was tired, not wanting dad or anyone else to hear… because mom was always the safe one to turn to. Talking to dad would have been madness since he tended to yell without realizing it, and my sisters were chatting amongst themselves, so… turning to mom was my only option.

As I told her of my strife, she gave me a half-hearted hug and told me we were almost done.

_-What happened next is why I would never go to the zoo again._

We were looking at the various monkeys in the Primate Habitat. I wasn't too thrilled, but dad was pointing and laughing, saying that they looked like stupid hairy humans.

There was a small part that didn't have a glass screen; instead, it was a floor-to-ceiling chain-link fence. My fingers went through the eyes of the fence and I held loosely, looking in and observing the apes as some climbed trees or ate or played with one another.

My enthusiasm gone and energy spent, I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against the fence, resting as much as possible and mentally noting that there _should _be conveniently-placed benches.

I waited until I was tapped on the shoulder and signaled to leave before I opened my eyes, but… what my eyes were met with wasn't the sight of my mom, dad, or sisters; no. What I was met with was a medium-sized ape, fingers wrapped around the eye of the fence and face pressed against it, a mirror to my previous stance. The sight was startling and I screamed, backing away from it as tears flooded me from both fear and embarrassment.

Mom and dad laughed. My sisters laughed. The mean ol' monkey rattled the fence at me. I just burried my face in my hands and tried to hide the fact that I was tired and crying.

I never wanted to go to the zoo anyways. I should've stayed home to play Lawnmower Man. I could've been content to play Hungry Hungry Hippos. I wanted to eat Chicken Nuggets with ketchup.

Instead, I was at the zoo, crying and being laughed at because a monkey scared me.

Horror movies don't happen like this, but it seemed my life was doomed to play out as one. I had been so frightened, and nobody cared. It wasn't fair.

Why were they laughing at the situation? It was scary!

-When I pulled myself together, I wiped my eyes, grabbed mom's hand, and started tugging her arm, begging to leave.

And we did leave, but I had to hear them talking and laughing about it the whole way home. I pretended not to hear them, but their amusement caused my chest to tighten, and I just wanted to go cuddle with my Boo-Boo bear in my room. I wanted to drown myself in comics and videogames.

We eventually got home, and I was the first one in the house. I didn't even take off my shoes at the door like I was supposed to; I made a beeline for my room and shut the door, jumped onto my bed and buried my face in my pillow. After several seconds, I sat up and grabbed my favorite stuffed animal: his name was Boo-Boo.

I hadn't named him. Jen named him. Boo-Boo belonged to Jen when she was little, and she gave him to me when her own insecurities were dealt with and I had my own.

I hugged Boo-Boo as tight as I could, knowing that if he could, he'd take away all the sadness, all the embarrassment, and everything else I didn't want to feel.

I still love Boo-Boo; I keep him on my bed. I still hate the zoo too; it was a nightmare. I don't like monkeys; I have an aversion to them, or haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Nothing special here. Just Matt at the zoo. Next chapter will have Matt and Mello though. So, Review./**


	9. The Movement

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: CHAPTER DEADICATED TO: CatatonicVanity. Cheer up, hon; I love ya. Seriously, turn on some tunes and get Saucey. No need to feel glum because the world sucks. *huggle***

…

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**The Movement**

Meeting Mello was a lot like breaking a bone. It took weeks to get used to and twice that to deal with the aftermath, and there wasn't much that could be done about it.

Let me explain how it happened. My mom was a janitor at some corporation that manufactured big machines for mining companies. (Coincidentally, dad was a coal miner, but that's not the point.) No, let's get to the parts that matter.

Mom was a janitor… and so was her friend Kris. Kris Andrews, a twice-divorced mother of one, and that one… was a blonde demon named Mello.

Mello with his pristine clothes and $60 hair cut. Mello with his squeaky clean, name-brand shoes (while mine didn't even have a label; in fact, I was wearing hand-me-down shoes that once belonged to my cousin Brittany). Mello… with his good grades, calculating eyes, and pocket full of change as he stood at the vending machine.

Mello.

Tall, lean, and the epitome of trouble. An average child with above-average things. The complete opposite of me, with my slightly-short stature and boring everything-else.

We were total opposites as I sat with a cup of juice and a Gameboy while he poked coins into the machines and provided himself with snacks to go with the studying he'd be doing to ensure his advanced placement in school.

Yeah, that was Mello, in a nutshell, and somehow I was the one who routinely was referred to as a 'dork' -But again, nickels and dimes, that's not what mattered.

Though, I'll speak volumes and say that we actually got along with one another. When my mom was down the hall mopping with an experimental cleaner from the Spartan Chemical Company, and while Kris (Mello's mom) was wiping down tables and then moving on to wash the windows, he and I had many adventures, sometimes hiding in the supply closet and pretending to dance with brooms; sometimes sneaking into the women's lavatory and locking the stalls and climbing beneath the panels to get out. He sometimes shared his snacks, and I sometimes let him attempt to guide Mario to the flagpole.

Usually, we just tended to our own vices.

After we spent a good bit of time together, our moms began to set up playdates. He would come over to my house, invade my personal space, and touch my things… and I couldn't tell him no. I wasn't allowed to get angry at my guest, even though he got to play with my good toys and I was never allowed to be Player One. I sucked up my agitation, and I played the part of a pacifist.

Things seemed to go well on the outside, but… when the adults were away, we found ourselves in less-than-favorable situations.

Like, when I beat him at MarioKart and he decided to strangle me. Or when we made a suicide pact and acted on it, trying and failing to hang ourselves with jump ropes. Or when we played in dad's tool kit and I ended up with a screwdriver going through my hand (and had to get stitches and a shot and everything!).

Still, yes, when we were together, there was potential for trouble and, though I inwardly grew to detest sharing, he became my best friend.

He visited all the time; we made our plastic dinosaurs talk. We played games. We drank so much soda and ate so many chips. We had competitions to see who could stay up the longest, though he usually won. Seriously, there were times when we'd venture to the bathroom just to dip our heads under the faucet, hoping the cold water would wake us up.

And yet he always stayed awake longer than me.

But again, those were good times, and good times were never meant to last in my life.

One time, when Mello came to visit and we told scary stories, we heard spooky noises, like ghosts or something. I told him rumors about our house being haunted. He didn't believe me until the noises started. Low groaning sounds.

With him in the lead, we decided to investigate the source of the sounds. I pushed him ahead and simultaneously ducked behind him; my thoughts raced and I pictured the most foul creatures I'd seen in the movies I was too young to watch.

He marched up the carpeted stairs and onto the landing, peeking between the emerald railing and narrowing his eyes at a large blanket that covered something large and lumpy.

I peeked as well, and my eyes widened at the sight. Surely a monster was hiding beneath that blanket, and it was moving! I wanted to run back, but Mello's hand on mine stopped me. I couldn't be sure if it was his way of gaining my support or telling me not to be a crybaby. Either one was plausible, but I just took a deep breath and skirted around him, moving towards the moving mass reaching a hand to it.

One last glance over my shoulder and back to him gave me a confirmation to go through with my actions. I pinched the corner of the blanket and disrobed the beast!

Only… it wasn't a beast. It was my sister Niki… and she was naked… and not alone. My cheeks blooded red and I couldn't fathom what was going on as my sister and a man were entangled before my eyes.

I looked back to Mello… but he was already gone, leaving me to face the peril alone. "Niki?" I asked timidly, and my whole world was suddenly reduced to naked blurs, yelling, and me being pulled down the stairs by someone else; I was too traumatized to even notice whom had saved me.

I had so many questions… but none of them got answered, and when I looked to Mello, all I could say was: "At least it wasn't a ghost."

He glared at me, as if the whole thing had been _my _fault. "What if mom says I can't come over anymore?" he asked bitterly.

That thought hadn't even crossed my mind, and I winced at the idea. "Don't tell her," was my simple answer.

He hissed at me like I'd just told him to throw himself into the Dark Ages.

…Long story short, Mello went home early; my sister was grounded; and mom told me to go play.

I didn't understand anything, and their odd behavior with the incident made me both curious and frightened. In the end, I just told Mello bye, said I'd see him later, told him to call if he wanted to visit, told him that we'd play Clue or Monopoly. I even told him that if we played Cops and Robbers, I'd be the bad guy and let him arrest me; he always liked being on the winning side: the side of Justice.

He left.

I played games until bedtime. I went to bed and wondered if I should have gotten a snack before I got comfy under the blankets. I wanted a bowl of cereal: the Honeycomb kind with the bee on the box. But, the blankets were so warm; my food could wait 'til morning. Yes.

In the morning, I would have cereal, and maybe Mello could visit or call. And maybe things would be less confusing. Yes of course.

So, for now, I'll deal with the warm, comfy blanket.

-And… as I pulled my blankets up and curled beneath it, I realized… that this blanket -_this very one on top of me_ -was dreadfully similar to the one that guised the naked duo from earlier.

_FML, right?_

-So, I don't use _that_ blanket anymore; my friendship with Mello was rocky after that; and... well, I officially avoid uncovering mysterious things, especially if they have that particular movement, or... haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Review./**


	10. The Organism

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **Interesting things here.

…

* * *

**The Organism**

Life wasn't fair, nuh-uh; it wasn't. I got a big kid's microscope and was so excited. I could look at different slides of insect segments or blood samples and stuff. It was so cool, but… the happiness lasted about five minutes.

Niki asked what I was up to, and I replied: "I'm looking at various orgasms with my microscope!" Of course, I _now _know that the word I meant was: organism; back then, I didn't know any better.

Niki simply laughed at me and took my microscope from me. She said: "kiddo, let me explain something to you… There are three types of people in the world."

"Only three?" I asked.

"Yes, three. _Organisms_, which are itty bitty pea-brained kids like you. _Orgasms_, which are sexy, big-boobed girls like me and Jen. And _Creepy-Crawlers_, which are old, ugly, wrinkly men like grampa."

Not knowing any better, I had to ask: "So… when organisms grow up, they become orgasms? What's an orgasm?"

I was confused, and Niki's laughter didn't help. "Don't repeat that to anyone, okay? Especially not mom and dad."

I knew better than to ask why. Usually when I was told not to tell my parents something, it was because I could get in trouble; either that, or they could get in trouble, in some cases. Regardless, I knew to keep quiet.

So, with my microscope confiscated, I grew bored and asked mom if Mello could visit. She replied the negative, so I tried for another option: "Can I spend the night with Cousin Josh?"

(I had _a lot _of cousins.)

When she said: 'We'll see,' I mentally decided that the answer would be yes; I was so optimistic. I ran to my room to pack my clothes and toys and favorite videogames.

-A few hours later, I found myself walking into Aunt Marjorie's house; Josh was her son and my cousin. I dropped my bag on the couch next to her cat and ran to my cousin's room, excited to see him. He was several years older than me, which meant he was cooler, and smarter, and the most interesting thing since the Happy Meal!

Entering his room was tricky, involving a series of moves that I imagine should have been put to use in Mission Impossible, see is how it was so messy and there was more clothes and CD cases than floor to walk on.

Managing to get over to the bed and sit next to Josh, I wrinkled my nose at that signature teenage smell: the scent of body odor and too much cologne. I was too polite to comment on how the stench made bile rise in my throat; instead, I focused o the controller in his hand and the screen that held his attention.

That was a magical day. That day entailed my meeting with: The Nintendo 64.

Yes, with it's bulky base, odd shape, multiple buttons in multiple colors, single joystick and detachable rumble-pack! Oh, I was livid with joy as I watched him play DK 64.

Seeing him choose Lanky as his choice monkey and watching him clear stages, bash the baddies, collect the banana coins, etc, I was struck with awe.

When he alerted me that he had to 'take a piss and drain the canal,' he handed me the controller and authorized me to 'play around for a minute.'

And I did.

I chose Diddy Kong for my own character; I quickly learned to use his peanut-shooting pistols and jetpack. It was better than Paper Boy! It was better than Toe Jam and Earl! It was better than Earthworm Jim! It was better than anything I'd played before!

When Josh returned, he thanked me for keeping him from certain death, and I smiled proudly. "I'm good at playing games; I play a lot," I told him.

He just shrugged, but the gesture wasn't rude; if anything, his silence made him cool. In a way, I idolized him.

-Josh beat the game that day, and I got to witness the glory. Then two of his friends came over; they were cool too. They all just talked about things I didn't care about; then they took turns playing Chess. -They taught me to play too, though I was such a n00b.

(I officially learned the word n00b.)

It was all so fun… until I became the odd-man-out.

Because I was so young, they decided to ditch me. They could have told me not to bug them; I'm good at being quiet and invisible: an organism, unseen by the naked eye, but… instead, they lured me outside onto the patio, and… they went back inside and locked me out.

I tried several times to get in. The front and back doors, all locked. The windows were open but too high to climb… I was locked outside, alone.

The neighbors had a frightening Shih-Tzu that barked and jumped at the enclosing fence.

It was sickeningly hot out, and with nothing else to do, I sat in a wicker chair on the porch and waited to be let in, feeling confused and sad at being discarded without warrant.

Sure, I knew I was younger; I could understand them being annoyed with me, but they could have told me to watch tv or something; I would have listened.

Instead, they left me, a sickly six year old, to fend for myself.

It seemed like forever before they unlocked the doors; I was happy to hear the lock click and then let myself in. "Why'd you lock me out?!" I whined, my voice betraying how much I wanted to tattle on them.

Josh simply shrugged, silent; his friends laughed and tried to convince me that I was stupid, that the door had been unlocked all along.

I wasn't stupid; I knew they'd locked me out; and though I was angry and wanted to cry, I didn't. Instead, I walked past their chessboard and discreetly stole a Rooke; then I went to sit on the couch and watch tv.

Later, Josh went home with one of his friends, and I grew lonely. I wasn't alone… because Aunt Marjorie was still around, but she was a fat old lady who rarely left her room.

Weighing almost 400 pounds and eating Vicodin like M&M candies, she lived off child support checks and Internet dating.

She was a rather frightening woman, but when I finally grew tired of watching Dexter's Laboratory and Cow and Chicken, I finally ventured upstairs and knocked on her door -It was important to knock in case she was changing her clothes or something.

When she gave me verbal permission to come it, I cracked open the door and squeezed in. Her room was messier than Josh's room.

I made my way over to her and sat on a pile of clothes.

It was clear that she was surfing the net for a man who might fall in love with her inner beauty rather than her outer appearance.

She was _never _off the computer.

I sat beside her quietly, wondering what she was up to but not really asking; I didn't know her all that well.

After a few minutes she asked how school was.

I shrugged, hoping that I might look cool, like Josh.

Again she tried to converse, asking if I had a girlfriend.

I grimaced at the idea.

Then came silence.

I didn't care for silence. But, as my gaze wandered and settled on a particular part of the mess in the room, I recognized an ugly flowered hat. I crawled over to it and plucked it from a pile; I placed it on my head and smiled brightly, turning on my charm and wondering if I looked as pretty as I felt.

My aunt looked, and she laughed. "You can have that," she said.

And I nodded, still smiling as I reseated myself, keeping the hat on.

"Want me to paint your nails, Matt?" she asked.

She might have been teasing; I couldn't tell, but I nodded and held out my hands, fingers spread.

Again, she laughed. "The son I never wanted and the daughter I never had -that's you, Matt." She seemed genuinely happy, but I couldn't discern why. She got up and led me out of the room and to the dining room table. We sat across from one another and she produced red polish.

I placed my hands on the table and watched with mild interest as the made my dull ugly nails into something pretty.

I felt pretty, like I was a real somebody and not just an annoying little kid.

Wearing the flowered hat and having my nails painted, yes, I was as pretty as those people on tv. I smiled in spite of the butterflies in my tummy.

Casually, a thought crossed my mind and I recalled what Niki had said. "I learned something," I told my aunt.

"Hn?"

"Three kinds of people," I began… and I named them off, counting on my still-wet fingers and smudging the red polish: "Organisms, which are like me… I'm small and tiny… and nobody will ever see me unless they look very hard… like, through a microscope."

She looked thoughtful but said nothing.

"Then there are Orgasms and Creepy-Crawlers…"

I didn't get the chance to explain the latter two. My aunt decided then to speak up.

"And you know about orgasms?"

I nodded. Of course I knew. Niki told me. But… I wouldn't tattle on my big sister.

"Matt, your mom and dad should tell you about this, but since they're not here, and I am… well…" she paused, and my heart beat faster; I wondered if I'd done something to get into trouble. I suddenly felt nervous and began to plot a way around whatever was to come, but before I could, she continued: "Sex is a very normal thing, Matt. One day, you're going to meet a wonderful young girl -or boy- and you're going to get excited.-"

"My friend Mello makes me excited."

"No, a different kind of excitement will occur, and it'll make your penis hard."

At this point, my eyes are wide and I can't breathe. I'm torn between running and hiding to deal with my embarrassment, and laughing because she'd said a dirty word. So, I settled for covering my eyes and shrinking away from her.

"Matt, this is very important. It's perfectly normal to have those urges and want to touch someone. You might even want to touch yourself first."

My face was on fire; I wanted my fat aunt to shut up.

"And, well, when you're ready for sex, you'll hopefully have a loving boy or girl who wants you to put your penis inside her vagina."

I wanted to throw up. I knew those words, but I was sickened by them.

And the talk didn't end.

She told me how to pleasure a woman and that it was equally fine if I wanted to pleasure or be pleasured by a man, and that the outcome of sex, with any luck, is a blissful sensation called an orgasm.

By the time the lecture was done, I just wanted to go home.

Thankfully, she was willing to take my fragile self home. She dropped me off and left. I walked inside my modest home, fingers covered in smudged red polish and blue floral hat upon my head, and I headed straight for my room.

My sister Jen came in after a moment and sat next to me on the bed. "You okay, kid?" she asked.

I just hugged her tightly and buried my face against her side. "My penis is gonna get hard, isn't it?" I asked, scared, confused, and weary.

She pushed me away, rougher than intended. "What?"

"Josh was mean and Aunt Marjorie said my boy-parts were going to get hard and-"

And Jen interrupted me. "Matt, why don't I make you some Paper Soup?"

Paper Soup is what we called Ramen. Not sure why, but it's always been that way.

I nodded to her and wiped my eyes; they were wet.

I wanted soup.

I didn't eat at Aunt Marjorie's because she lived off of Mac and Cheese, Hotdogs, and cheap Wine.

I watched The Land Before Time while Jen made Paper Soup.

She came to my room and we each ate a bowl full while the movie finished playing.

Nothing was said; nothing needed to be said.

Then I said something anyways.

"Jen… do you ever feel… like… an organism?"

She never did answer. I don't know if she even heard the question, but I didn't ask again. I felt so small and insecure. I wanted things to be easy and fun, like on Full House or something. No matter how bad something was, it always had a happy ending.

Life's not like that. Sometimes cousins are mean; sometimes aunts are dirty, fat, and can't get laid; sometimes we all feel like unimportant organisms.

I feel like an organism, or… haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Review./**


	11. The Hope

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **Um, this chapter is all over the place, but bear with me.

…

* * *

**The Hope**

If anyone asked, I'd tell them my first kiss was with a girl named Kriste when I was thirteen. In reality, there are two other '_first kisses' _I'd had.

_Three _first kisses, can you imagine?

With Kriste, everything was as it should have been. I liked her, and she liked me. It was a quick peck on the lips in the hallway at school.

But the other two… were something else.

My very _first _first kiss was when I was seven. My family went camping, and it was my first time. I was excited, being sure to have packed my fishing pole and everything!

Camping was a big deal.

Mom and dad both told me so, but whereas mom used kind words to say that it'd be fun, dad specifically said: '_maybe a nice outdoorsy trip will keep ya from wantin' to wear them girly clothes_.'

Dad had, on more than one occasion, caught me in my sisters' makeup, my cousin's shoes, and my aunt's floral hat.

There was something dreadfully appealing and fun about looking pretty. It was fun to put everything on and look in the mirror; I looked like a pretty little lady, but…-

_But boys don't need to look like girls._

Boys went hunting and fishing and camping. Boys dated girls and 'scored.' Boys played rough and made crude jokes at other people's expense.

Girls did none of those things.

I was a boy. So dad took me camping.

There were a lot of campers and RV's in the clearing that we pulled into.

The adults told me to go play while they set up.

My sisters coated themselves and me with bug spray to protect us from hungry mosquitoes; then they complained about the trip in general while I explored the enclosing woodland.

I ran into a fellow explorer. She was about my age. We met beside a bunch of poison ivy. She had long black hair done up in curls and bows; she wore a white sundress and Nike tennis shoes.

I wore a t-shirt and pants stained in ketchup. I was envious of how pretty she looked, with her pale skin and perfect teeth.

My teeth were crooked but our insurance wouldn't cover braces.

-We introduced ourselves and were instant friends. Kids are funny and naïve like that.

Her name was Hope.

_Hello, Hope. My name's Matt, and though I'm not allowed to wear them, I have hair bows like that at home._

She called me cute.

We played in a nearby park. I got sand in my eyes due to a freak accident. Then I cried, but… for once, nobody laughed at me. She apologized and sat with me, holding my hand until my eyes stopped burning. Then we continued to explore together.

She kissed me on the cheek and told me not to tell.

_My real first kiss._

-We found an ocean!

-Okay, so it was either a very small lake or a very huge pond; not an ocean, but to kids our size, it was like an ocean!

So big and wet!

I couldn't swim, but Hope said she could swim because her mom and dad paid for lessons. She stripped down to her underwear and jumped in the water.

I kept my eyes closed so that I didn't see her undressing. When I opened my eyes, I looked to the water, but… she wasn't swimming. I couldn't even see her. I looked everywhere.

I saw bubbles towards the middle of the water, but there was no way I could get in there. I didn't wanna drown, but I feared she might be meeting such a fate.

I waited for a long time, long after the bubbles stopped.

My breathing became irregular, but I didn't cry; I wouldn't let myself cry this time. Instead, I headed back to the campsite and sat next to everyone.

"So, wha'cha been up to, kiddo?" one of my sisters asked.

And I shrugged, my bead bowed and I couldn't say a word. What could I have said, really?

"Can we go home soon?" I asked.

They told me we'd be staying at the campsite all weekend. Then they said there were a couple kids running around, so I shouldn't get bored.

I didn't say anything.

They started a fire in the designated pit, and we roasted hot dogs and marshmallows; then we made hobo pies.

I liked hobo pies, but after knowing about Hope's disappearance, I couldn't enjoy the food.

Night came, and as we settled down, other campers came to inquire Hope's whereabouts.

Again, I said nothing; I pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, we all got ready to go fishing.

You can guess where we went fishing.

The small ocean was full of Blue Gill, and as we set our lures and bait on our hooks, I was filled with dread.

I cast my line and tried to keep calm. I caught two fish and dad showed me the proper way to release them back to the water.

My sisters didn't come.

Dad didn't really pay attention to his own line; instead, he focused on making sure I was doing boyish things.

We never discovered Hope's body, and I never even mentioned meeting her.

Later that day, it started to rain, so we headed home early.

Once home, I became who I was by default; I changed my clothes and ran to my room to play games.

-That was my first, and I already mentioned my third in terms of first kisses. My second first kiss was… Mello.

I was visiting his house; I was eleven at the time. PlayStation was the new thing. We played Rachet and Clank, taking turns and switching players between deaths.

When he grew bored of videogames, he decided we'd play the childish game Truth or Dare.

I chose Dare; he dared me to close my eyes and hold my hand against my mouth, palm facing away from me. So, I did. I closed my eyes and pressed the knuckle-side of my hand to my lips and waited. I assume he did the same -Actually, no.

I _know _he did the same because I cheated and peeked; I saw him place his hand to his mouth just as I had, and then I saw him coming close.

I squinted my eyes so tight to compensate for my peeking, and then I felt his hand hit mine, like a bizarre hi-five, like our hands had kissed or something.

"That wasn't so bad, was it? Keep your eyes closed," he said.

I felt his hand hit mine again.

"Okay, now remove your hand, but don't open your eyes or I'll punch you."

Yikes, he was demanding when he wanted to be.

I dropped my hand but kept my eyes closed.

He did the same, I know it. I didn't even have to peek this time. Then I felt his lips on mine. My cheeks flooded red and I opened my eyes but didn't pull away.

He pulled away first, after a few seconds of our lips being together.

He looked nervous, like maybe it had been his first and he just wanted to get it over with. "You… didn't pull away. You're so gay," he said.

I could only gawk at him. "You kissed me," I accused accurately. "You kissed me, so that makes _you _the gay one."

"You wear girl's clothes sometimes. You didn't stop me from doing it, and you didn't gross out over it; you're _so _freaking gay."

"…so what if I am? Would you not like me anymore?"

"…no."

"So, it doesn't matter." My reasoning was sound. I'd never really thought about boys or girls. I simply wasn't interested, but… there was a chance that I _could _be gay. I'd never questioned it before. But, did it really matter if I was?

Mello was my friend, and if he didn't care, then neither did I.

"It's cool," he said after a moment of silence. "If you're gay, I don't mind. But I like chicks. With, like, boobies and stuff."

Again, the silence enveloped us. There was an awkward tension between us, and I didn't quite know what to do. So, we sat there, waiting a small eternity until his mom called us for supper.

We ate the odd confections Kris, his vegetarian mother, had cooked.

Then we ventured outside to ride bikes; he even let me ride his new one, which was super cool with decals and stunt pegs and everything!

We raced until his bike chain popped off. We couldn't quite figure out how to fix it, but… we weren't done racing, so we popped the other bike's chain off and started from the top of the hill, crashing every time we hit the bottom.

We raced at least ten races like that. Racing chainless down a steep hill, crashing at the bottom, then walking our bikes back to the top.

Laughing and leaning on one another, Mello and I walked back into the house, our jean leggings torn and bloody scabs crawling up our legs and forearms. We were genuinely happy, despite our scrapes and bruises.

His mom helped use clean our cuts and put on Band-Aids.

We slept in the same room; him on the bed and me on the floor. Before actually sleeping, we stared at the ceiling and talked quietly, sometimes about movies or games, other times about what-if situations, occasionally slipping in a joke.

We were both tired and scatterbrained.

Then he said: "Matt, if you really are gay, I'm really okay with it. Just… don't ever pretend to be something you're not. You're… better than that. Even if you are a flaming homo."

Hearing that, I smiled, but I didn't respond. It was nice to know _someone _approved of me. Whether or not I'd grow up to like boys, at least Mello didn't mind.

So, yes, my first kiss was Hope. And it was on the cheek, and she died. And I never told anyone about it. In my mind, I'll always pine about how Mello should have been my first kiss. And, if anyone asks, I'll tell them that Kriste from school was my first.

I had three first kisses.

I might be gay. I might be straight. I might be a cross-dressing pansexual for all I know.

In the end, it doesn't matter.

-In the end, I always find myself in less-than-pleasant situations, in which my esteem is stomped on and I am pushed aside.

Even Mello would eventually tire of me, though… it's not my sexuality, or even my personality, that sets him astray.

What separates me and Mello… is a health hazard.

-Mom got sick.

It started with her chest hurting. I remember it bothered her for months. I would bring her coffee or soda, and I would crouch beside her chair, laying my head in her lap; she would play with my hair or pat me on the head.

She said her lungs weren't working, she couldn't breathe. I just told her I loved her and called her beautiful.

She went from doctor to doctor, hospital to hospital, test to test.

She had tumors.

She had surgeries.

She had various cancers.

She had COPD.

She had a low-grade aneurism.

She had a weak heart.

She had a lung disease.

She was dying, slowly. Very slowly. Could live for years, but she was deteriorating.

She has narcolepsy and falls asleep without warning.

She can't take care of me anymore.

I make sure she eats and takes her medicines.

I do the laundry now.

I make sure dad has supper, my sisters get home safely, and that the house gets clean.

I do the dishes and sweep the floors.

I don't ask friends to come over.

I don 't ask to go anywhere.

I remember to brush my teeth and comb my hair.

I don't worry about my sexuality anymore. I don't even worry about how dad feels when I dress like a girl.

All I care about is staying strong… because people need me.

I miss my friends, but I wanna be a good kid. I wanna be a good son to my mom. I wanna be there if she falls asleep while standing up, so I can catch her. I wanna make sure she makes it to all of her appointments. I wanna help her with the bills and checkbook.

_I wanna be a kid again. But I can't. _

The world would fall apart without me in it.

I want a hug.

I want someone to feed me and take care of me when I'm sick. I want someone to tuck me in at night.

I feel sick.

Mom can't find the thermometer.

_Do I have a fever?_

Sometimes she doesn't remember my name.

I throw up a lot.

_I feel sick, really sick._

Mom says I'm not sick.

The painful lumps are back under my arms, but mom has enough to worry about.

I keep it a secret… until a check up with my doctor reveals a problem.

My lymph nodes are swollen… and I have excess nodules on some.

I have tumors… and they're malignant.

That means cancer.

I cry.

And mom cries.

And we're all crying again.

And I'm angry… because nothing is ever right. Nothing is ever easy.

I'm bitter.

I want to put a bullet between the eyes of every muppet and cartoon character that told me that things could get better.

I want to hit someone.

I don't hit anyone though… because I'm not the violent sort. I play games instead.

PlayStation 2 is my new God.

I forget how to pray to the real one.

-The doctor suggests treatment options. We agree on radiation.

Before my first treatment, I'm in the lobby with mom, and there are kids with no hair, bald and sickly, and I want to cry. But I don't.

_(How can I be pretty if I don't have any hair?)_

Mom tells me to be strong.

I don't say anything.

I'm scared, and I'm angry.

It's not fair.

My insides hurt. I feel ready to throw up.

Nobody can help me. Even if the doctors can help, when I go home, my fat aunt will call, asking if mom's busy, and I'll say: '_she's sleeping again._' Then a stranger will call to say that my big sister Jen got into a fight and they're threatening to sue. (Yeah, Jen's been walking the streets and starting fights, a regular vigilante… but it's not something I outwardly approve of.) And Niki will hide in her room, needles in her arms and drugs in her system; she's an addict. And my third sister? I don't know where she is anymore. Dad's at work.

I'm alone.

The world needs me, and I can't do everything.

I break down in tears, head between my knees as I sit in my little corner, nails freshly painted and my cousin's girly sandals on my feet. Because, whereas everything else is wrong, I don't want to lose sight of who I am.

Even if the rest of the world condemns me, I'm Matt; I'm strong; I play videogames.

And I'm sick, always sick, always throwing up and looking pale. I'm wilting and withering and alone, but… unlike I could with Hope, I'm saving the rest of the world… even though they won't lift a finger to save me. That's just how I am, or… haven't you noticed?

…

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**/Review./**


	12. The Sick

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **This one's also all over the place, but I'll try to get things back on track next chappie.

…

* * *

**The Sick**

Sometimes it was a minor thing, like when I was playing Final Fantasy with my Gambits off and ended up slaughtered by a measly little Worgen. Other times, it was a little more trifling, like when I was walking to school and found myself spending too much time standing directly in the center of the road, baiting traffic.

It was never intentional. One minute, I was fine, doing what I needed to do; the next, I blacked out; my mind went blank and I found myself stupefied.

Motionless.

Unthinking.

-It was a scary thought, blacking out and coming back to awareness under new and unexpected circumstances.

I entertained the idea of multiple personalities, hoping for a chance to stake the blame of my oddities on something diagnosable and surreal.

But I wasn't sick in the head.

No, not in that sense.

My thoughts just left me at inconvenient times. Like when I was talking to my mom about school. She ended up saying that I had a funny look in my eyes and I stopped mid-sentence and didn't move for almost four minutes.

Like I was paralyzed; like my brain had somehow become unplugged.

Much later, a doctor would tell me that I'd been having mild seizures.

Nothing was ever done about that. No meds, no tests.

Then… I just… don't know. It was taboo for something to be wrong with me, it seemed. While mom boasted her tragedies and gained all the moral support others could offer, my problems were hidden, swept under the rug, and ultimately trampled on.

So, the cancer, my blood disorder, my seizures, and any strife that came from my own ordeals -it all went untold: a dirty secret.

My mom and dad knew. My sisters knew. My Uncle Ray knew, but… nobody else. It was all hush-hush.

-And, by the time I hit Junior High School, I thought things would look up, but they didn't. I was entering a new school and thought the world would be my oyster, or… something like that. But in reality, nothing changed other than my environment.

New school, old bullies.

And yes, I was bullied. Cornered and beaten. Pink highlighter and black permanent marker graphitized on my resisting self, branding me a fag, a bitch, a homo, a skank, and a loser.

As if my confusing sexuality made me a monster.

As if liking girl's clothes molded me into a target, painted me with circles and posted me in a field.

Their words were nothing, but their fists and kicks were painful. The fact that I could be in the locker room, covered in welts and bruises and barely able to stand, and… people still walked past me, not sparing a second glance to the weirdo-faggot whose hair was noticeably falling out.

Teachers were blind, and peers were reality's incarnation of a nightmare. I felt alone in a world that condemned me for weaknesses I couldn't control.

Even amongst my so called friends. I followed a small crowd that seemed to accept me… as long as I kept quiet and stayed out of their way. I hung out with them, watched movies with them, played games with them…

But it didn't matter.

I couldn't really connect with them. They were interested in Matt: the beta; the extra player; the back-up companion. They didn't know Matt: the person.

-Honestly, I'm not sure when it started. Did it happen gradually? Or was it an all-at-once sort of thing that I was blind to?

I transformed. Not like a caterpillar into a butterfly, but like an object into an idea. Something that had substantial potential but was squandered into an abstract nonexistence.

-Looking in the mirror is a horror. Why? Because when I look, the face doesn't _feel _like my own. Looking at myself, my insides hurt again and I fight back tears seemingly without warrant. But, there is a warrant. Very much, so. I deserve the agony… because I'm a boy who is meant to do boyish things, and yet, as I look at my reflection, I want to see the pretty lady I yearn to dress as.

I look at my flat chest and sagging clothes; I look at my sunken eyes and firm jaw line; I look at my sex… and I loathe it. It's wrong. I look at myself from every angle and feel despair.

Despair turns into anger.

That anger dissipates when I borrow my sisters' makeup again.

Because, when I revisit the mirror, I'm pretty. I'm special. I'm smiling. I look so pretty.

Angels don't look as pretty as me. Models don't compare.

I'm perfect.

But I'd be even more perfect if I had the right parts, if my hair was longer, and if the bruises would go away.

-But my injuries grow in number.

At the park, I get kicked, spit on, and beaten with a wooden ball bat. It was six against one, and the odds weren't in my favor.

Like a good little pacifist, I just fell down and took it.

I later went to the police, filled out statements, but all those menacing teens only received a verbal warning not to do it again.

-I go to school and hug the walls on my way to my locker.

Bullies never miss a favorite target. Ever.

I'm wearing a black hoody and a pair of my sister's jeans, and they don't miss an opportunity to pick me apart, starting with my wardrobe.

I don't mind that they make fun of my borrowed shoes anymore. I don't even mind that they point out the bedazzled butterflies on my pantleg.I can ignore how they grab and tug at my hoody, mocking and scowling and laughing as I just try to keep my mind on other things.

I'm perfectly fine until they kick me between the legs and ask if my imaginary vagina hurts.

I'm perfectly fine until they dump Gatorade on me and accuse me of wetting myself.

I'm perfectly fine until a teacher shows up, and everyone leaves, and the teacher simply tells me to get to class.

Class is fine. Perfect.

I learn a little, take notes, ignore the people who once finger painted with me and now were inclined to torture me, throwing crumpled paper or broken pencils at my sulking form.

_Yes, thank you. I'll take that, and you can go to hell. Buh-bye._

Yes, I am bitter, but with bitterness comes an understanding that can't be found otherwise.

When I get a black eye and some additional bumps and bruises from a scuffle at Lunch, something snaps.

I snap.

I blackout again, or something.

I awake to the world of awareness, finding my arms covered in blood from allegedly self-made wounds, and I'm cowering beneath the sink in the boys' lavatory, with a kneeling Guidance Counselor beckoning me out.

By then, my face is so full of dried tear-tracks that it hurts, but I'm not crying anymore.

-The counselor takes me to a back room, says I'll be excused from class and asks me a series of semi-personal questions, all of which I answer to the best of my ability.

_No, I don't have problems at home. I love my mom and dad. My sisters are cool, really._

_No, everything's fine._

_I'm happy, really. Just… leave me alone for a minute, and I'll get back to class after I get the blood off my arms._

-I'm later called to the office for a meeting. My parents are there. Dad's mad and mom looks horrified.

I try to tell them that it wasn't my fault; I didn't do it on purpose; I didn't even realize what was going on; I blacked out.

-Mom and dad take me to a clinic for my first psych evaluation.

They suggest therapy and say that I'm fine.

I go to therapy, only to find the therapist is sick and old and bitter; she tells me that my depression is wrong; she tells me that I'm making myself miserable; my problems are my fault.

After only a few horrid sessions, she dies of breast cancer.

And I'm glad.

-At home, I'm throwing up again. After almost every meal. And no, it's not on purpose.

I start to wonder if it's a stress-related problem, but I don't see a doctor and I don't tell mom.

Mom's still taking meds, sleeping, waking up and crying, eating, taking meds and sleeping again. It repeats. On the rare days when she's fine, her speech is slurred and she still risks falling.

She can hardly hold a coffee cup on her own.

When she sleeps, sometimes I stare at her for hours, watching her chest move and just thanking imaginary deities that she's still alive.

Because when she's gone, what will I have left?

It becomes that simple.

I have nothing.

I have books I've read time and time again; games I've beaten; friends I've lost; and talent I'm wasting.

-I started wearing black clothes, and it wasn't intentional. I didn't even realize it until I looked around and, where my old friends once were, I found naught but gothic clones. Black hair, black clothes, and eye liner.

I didn't know these people. I could tell you their names, but that's it. And yet, I looked like them; I could fit in… if I kept my mouth shut and stayed out of their way.

Again, like everyone else, they were interested a small part of me. Matt: the depressed, rather than Matt: the person.

These people weren't going to help me when I was down; they weren't going to stand up for me when I was slammed into a locker and told: _'Matt, you little bitch, you're in the way again. Y'know what, you disgust me. Not only are you a homo, but you make babies abort themselves. I'd try to slit my wrists just to get away from you, but why should I? You can just die in a corner instead.' _

And as they tugged at my sleeves, like on any other occasion, my ugly pink scars were bared, and I felt so much shame. And they laughed.

As if my suicide would have brought them joy.

-I didn't cry.

This time, I didn't even have to be strong.

This time, I didn't feel much of anything.

I shoved my way through the crowd, knocking books from their hands and knocking them into lockers. I toppled chairs and kicked things.

I was bitter.

And I was done taking shit from people who didn't give a shit about me.

And… I was sent home early for misbehaving.

Yes, y'see, a teacher will notice a few mistreated books, but they're blind to misfit students with black eyes, bloody lips, a prominent limp.

-Going home, I throw up. The vomit is laced with blood.

I don't care.

I go and hug mom while she sits in her chair, barely conscious in her drug-induced state. She runs her fingers through my hair and says I'm heaven-sent.

I don't say anything.

She asks why I'm home early.

I don't say anything.

She says she loves me.

I don't say anything.

She asks if I'm hungry.

I say: "What do you want me to cook for supper."

And that's the end of the conversation. She doesn't answer, and I pick myself up and go to the kitchen. I put away dishes and preheat the oven.

I check the caller ID and return missed calls.

I sit down and look around the room, and I wonder how life got this way.

_Was it ever better? Could it only get worse? Is there a silver lining?_

-I throw up again, all over the kitchen floor.

There's more blood.

Yes, I've been doing well from the radiation, but my body's still weak.

The doctor says I'm pulling through, though I'll have to be careful; there's always a chance of relapse.

I clean up my bloody vomit and revisit mom at her chair.

Of course, she's asleep, but that's okay.

Sometimes I like her better this way.

When she's quiet, just sitting there, I can't hear her grief.

When she's asleep, she can't tell me about her terrible childhood, how it was so much worse than mine. She can't tell me how she's so much sicker than I am. She can't tell me how she's lonely all day while I go have fun at school.

And I can't tell her anything.

Honestly, how could I? What could I say?

If I bring up the nine times I've had nonconsensual sex, been raped and left to pick myself up, she tells me about being four years old and watching her babysitter rape her sister, knowing she was next. She tells me about how her dad used to get mad and threaten to slit her throat. She tells me how she was beaten regularly. She tells me about her relationships that were abusive. She tells me about her hardships, and her aches, and her pains. She tells me how she's going to die.

Whatever pain I have, it's overshadowed my hers, ergo, it never matters.

So, I do what I can. I cook and clean. I try to be strong.

But, it gets to the point where I'm dressed in gothic attire, and my go-to response is: "_Whatever. It happens_."

When mom talks about needing surgery.

_Uh-huh, it happens._

Dad talks about how hard he works for how little pay.

_Whatever._

Sisters talk about who's dating who and how one of them just got an abortion.

_So?_

-It gets to the point where I don't really care. The world could end, and it wouldn't matter. We're all suffering and dying slowly, and… at least I pay attention. At least I know how to put aside my pains in favor of being a good person.

…

But things get harder, still.

Criminals count bodies. My sisters count babies.

My eldest sister has two kids already, both young. She moved in with some guy who lives off welfare and can't hold a job because he's a lazy drunkard.

My middle sister has had countless abortions and five successful births; she has custody of none of her kids; she lives with a drug dealer in a roach-infested apartment.

My other sister is popping out babies too, with another one on the way.

-Mom, bless her heart, takes in three of those kids, legally gaining custody of them and hoping to do some good; get on Karma's good side.

But this is the start of another nightmare.

Because it's _me _who's up all hours of the night changing diapers and heating up bottles of formula. It's _me _putting kids to bed and doing everything I can to take care of them.

And it's _me _losing precious sleep and missing school and getting sicker.

And it's not fair.

The few friends I had left finally leave me completely; this includes Mello. (But at least Mello still calls annually to tell me happy birthday… Like a distant uncle or second cousin.) They thought I was making up excuses, avoiding them. _"Nobody has that many problems," _they said.

So, fine. I finally understood it.

I learned something valuable for once.

Basically, my problems will only ever matter to me. And that's it.

The world won't stop without me.

The world doesn't care. That's how it works, isn't it? It's so simple, it's sickening. The world is sick, self-imposing and individually-inhibiting. And it only gets worse… or, haven't you noticed?

…

* * *

**/Review./**


	13. The Responsible

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **This cuts off in a weird place; sorry.

…

* * *

**The Responsible:**

Puberty was disturbing all its own, and I was developmentally behind. Others were getting taller, shoulders more broad and voice deeper. I was still short; my shoulder width hadn't increased, and thanks to an issue with my pituitary gland, my vocal cords didn't stretch like they should have. So, my voice squeaked longer and developed softer and I was scrawny and ill-equipped for what life was ready to deal me.

To top it off, dad's work required for him to relocate, so we all had to move.

We packed up and left everything and everyone behind.

Goodbye (so called) friends.

Goodbye enemies and bullies.

Goodbye family.

Goodbye favorite ice cream parlor.

Goodbye penny-candy store.

Goodbye park.

Goodbye everything.

-Welcome to a place the residents call: BFE.

_Bum-Fucked-Egypt._

This little piss ant of a town isn't even a town; it's a countryside. A large plot of land with an empty house smack dab in the center of the foreground.

We're in the middle of nowhere with one, maybe two neighbors distantly in sight. The neighbors are ridiculous; some wear straw hats and overalls while riding enormous tractors… like in really stereotypical movies and stuff.

There's a ranch and a slaughterhouse.

There are fields and woodland and… almost nothing else. Not even a gas station. No post office. No Fire Department. Absolutely nothing.

I just wonder what I'm supposed to do while we live here.

Unfortunately, I get my answer a little soon.

-Dogs, small ones; mom wants to raise them, and I don't mind. I'm a sucker for animals.

-And cats. Stray cats. Strangers drop them off without permission, sometimes having a whole infantile litter in a single box (minus a mother). And… we find homes for them.

-And of course, being the boy that I am who needs to do boyish things, my parents (without my own knowledge) lend my services to tend the neighbors' farms.

For free.

Yes, that's right. Getting up before the sun to tend crops that aren't mine; to feed farm animals I don't like; and to bale hay that I have no use for.

All for nothing, not a penny; not even a thank you.

_Thank you for the worthless knowledge of how to tend a farm._

I'm a computer person: a gamer; I don't do people, and I sure as hell don't like horses and shit.

And oh, the _shit_. The literal manure. So vile, I'm sure you can imagine.

The smell makes me ill to the point where there's no reason to leave the house. Ever.

But I'm not allowed to stay inside all the time.

In fact, when I try, mom and dad lock me out of my bedroom so that I can't hole myself up.

-Now, back to that _smell _issue.

If you're not used to it, it's terrible. Really, really terrible.

But mom grew up on a farm when she was little, so when she steps outside to breathe it in, it's her idea of 'fresh air.'

I'm just thinking: _'I'd rather smell the pollution down near the railroad tracks back at our old home.'_

And as bad as that smell is, it's nothing compared to the slaughterhouse.

Blood, so much of it. Death and decay. And meat; raw meat. So much of it that I temporarily become a vegetarian.

That yearn to be a vegetarian is only increased when I get a job there. Thankfully, I'm not killing the animals… No, I'm just cutting them up and bagging the edible parts before they move onto processing.

At first, I'm told to wear gloves when I work.

But it's winter, and I can't feel my fingers with or without the gloves, and the extra material between my skin and the meat is making it hard to work efficiently.

So the gloves come off, and as I hold my breath to ignore the smell, my bare hands are moving what used to be deer, lamb, cow, etc.

Harmless little animals that talk in cartoons… now reduced to red slabs with sheens of fat and gristle.

Yes, this is what we're eating. Doesn't it make you sick?

-I'm only working a few hours a day, three days a week, for less than minimum wage because the boss-man said it's illegal to actually hire me at my young age.

I don't complain.

To me, _any_ money is _a lot_ of money.

…

I receive a blessing from yet another cousin; her name is Megan.

When we were little, we were close, but she had her problems and I had mine, and we slowly drifted apart; you know how it is.

She offered me an opportunity I couldn't refuse.

She showed me the movie: Boys Don't Cry... (And so began my temporary crush on the wonderful Hilary Swank.) I no longer felt afraid to think outside my gender and into the blender.

Then Megan offered me personal account information to abuse as I saw fit.

And abuse it, I did.

I signed in, and… for a moment, I wasn't Matt: the farmhand. I wasn't Matt: the meat-handler.

No, for once, I could pretend to be Matt: the girl.

Using her pennames and several aliases, I talked to complete strangers, feeding them wild tales about the girl I always dreamed I could be.

And they believed me.

Things were fine until I ended up feeling angst and let loose a long and out-of-place rant about what bothered me, and finally… my lies caught up to me.

Someone called my bluff, pulled me out of my protective shell, and said: '_Nobody has that many problems… except a friend I once had. His name… was Matt._'

And as I read that, my eyes opened and my heart closed.

Through the process of elimination, I tried a name I hadn't used in a long time.

_Mello._

And it _was _Mello. My Mello. My friend. And eventually, the one person that truly, truly mattered to me.

The only person that seemed to accept me for the oddity that I was.

-I came clean to Mello about who I was, and he seemed okay with it, but he made me promise to stop being someone I wasn't.

And I agreed.

Every online friend I met after that was immediately introduced to Matt: the honest. (Sometimes too honest.)

There was almost no filter on what I would reveal, and for once, I felt free to say anything.

Online friends were the perfect companions.

I could tell them whatever I wanted, and the most they could do was ignore me or bust out the CAPS LOCK.

I could talk to them until I'd had my fill, and then simply logout.

They were friends that came with an off-switch.

They were friends that couldn't hurt me because they couldn't touch me.

The most they could do was point out my flaws, and I'd already done that for them.

This… was perfect.

Too perfect.

Because… yes, I had a few close online friends that I grew attached to, but… Mello was in a league of his own in terms of friendship.

I knew him personally, and though I didn't know how to admit it, I grew to love him.

I grew to obsess over him.

He began to consume my every waking thought.

He then invaded my dreams.

His name inked itself all over my notebooks and I fancied what he and I would be as a couple.

Before I could confess my feelings, he caught on and confronted me.

_But Mello doesn't like other boys. Mello wants a woman… and children… and a real family._

I can provide none of that, but my heart goes out to him.

I laugh off his words and accept the friendship he's willing to offer; it's better than nothing.

…

Things take an interesting turn as my cousin Josh comes back into the picture, showing up in the middle of the night and asking to stay.

And he does stay for one, two, three… -Eleven nights.

He stays eleven nights before finally admitting that his mother (my Aunt Marjorie) has found a new boyfriend, and that boyfriend had told Josh to leave and not come back. Ergo, Josh is homeless.

Mom and dad decide Josh can stay.

Josh and I hang out, sucking down 2 liters of pop every night, eating junk food and playing video games.

_Final Fantasy? Thank you, I believe I will. Let's take down the Earth Wyrm!_

_Devil May Cry 3? Hellz-dafuq-Yeahz! Let's beat it time and time again and unlock all the bonus content!_

-Josh and I got along surprisingly well.

He told me horror stories about his mother, calling her a beast, titling her The Great Marjorie.

_Marjorie: The MEGA Bitch!_

He told me about her endless nights of pleasure; about how he heard every pound of bliss through the paper-thin walls of their house.

He told me how he'd spent a few nights in his car before working up the courage to stay with me and my family.

I didn't say much of anything, but as we gamed the nights away, staying up to three and four in the morning (even though I had to be up by six) we entered Boss battles with a hysterical cry of: "_And the Great Marjorie awaits!"_

We jokingly named all horrors after his mother.

-He decided to get in shape; maybe join the army.

I said: _Go for it._

I was nothing if not supportive.

-He started this crazy diet and exercise program; I went along with it for support.

_Half an apple and a child-sized portion of salad with low-calorie vinaigrette. One protein bar; half before exercising, and the other half after. And finally, two crackers and a slice of wheat bread._

That was breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

We only drank water.

This diet was followed religiously for five days, and on the weekend, we broke it in favor of eating greasy fast food from Wendy's, complete with a frosty and a game of chess.

-We woke up and did sit-ups and push-ups. We had our meager breakfast, splitting an apple and eating a salad. Then we played a game, sometimes reverting to SEGA for entertainment. Next we would grab our protein bars, each about four inches long and housing 90 calories; we strapped on our shoes and ate the first half before even exiting the property enroute a walk that started as a 2 mile long path and eventually grew to 9 miles as time went on. As we stumbled back onto the property, we'd consume the remains of our bars and enter the house with the ambition to chug a gallon of water. After we continued to play games while our fatigue waned, we ventured to that horrid aforementioned slaughterhouse.

Josh was instantly hired and I was promoted to work in Processing.

_Pay raise, anyone?_

Together, Josh and I learned everything from tenderizing, grinding, and tubing to stringing meat in the smoke house (where various types of jerky were seasoned).

We would work there for hours, skipping lunch because… honestly, after working there, blood on your hands and clothes, there's little room for an appetite.

Being dismissed and punching our time cards, we head home, wash up, and have supper. Crackers and bread and water.

Then we go outside for a few matches of Badminton, in which score is not kept, rather we keep track of how many successful returns are made.

Finally, we go back inside and get to bed… but not before another small gaming marathon.

-Our weight-loss attempt proves fruitful, and before long, my clothes are practically falling off; my pants don't stay up even with the aid of a belt, and my shirts are so baggy, I might as well wear night gowns. (And don't even get me started on the boxer issue; none of them fit.)

My body had never looked better in my opinion; there's a noticeable difference in my muscle-to-fat ratio, and I'm temporarily placated with my physique… until mom finally notices how bony my arms have become.

She orders a lot of pizza: almost any gamer's favorite food.

She tells me and Josh to sit down, but she hovers behind me, looming over my shoulder like a predator; her hands find themselves on my shoulders as she tells me to eat.

I can only look at the greasy mess before me; my stomach churns.

Aside from my weakly dose of Wendy's, it had been a while since I had much of anything in my system.

Mom continues to urge me to eat, threatening to take away my games.

I just look at the pizza and wonder if I'd be able to eat it; then my attention turns to Josh who simply shakes his head.

_You don't need it; be strong, Matt. You've dieted this long; don't ruin it._

"You don't need it," Josh says aloud.

Mom just reminds me that my games are at stake.

After a few minutes, Josh gets impatient and says: "Just one piece; I'll even eat with you."

And he does. He looks as disgusted as I am, but he picks up a slice of the greasy, cheesy heart attack, and he folds it in half, and he shoves it into his mouth, wolfing it down in seconds.

Taking a deep breath, I attempt the same, but after only a few small bites, bile rises in my throat as my stomach angrily rejects the now-foreign substance.

I throw up… and Josh just reaches for another piece.

I feel slightly betrayed but don't comment.

-Over the next few days, things are hard, but mom makes me continue eating. After every meal, I'm so tempted to go and force myself to puke it up... but I don't.

After a week, I finally give up fighting.

With every bite of food, I feel sick; I feel disgusting; I feel fat. (I never felt fat before dieting. _Bitter irony_.)

I can hear my stomach and thighs mocking me, broadcasting each ounce they gain.

And the bodily-dismorphic thought stays with me as I purposely wear baggy clothes to hide my hideous form.

Nothing looks good on me.

-And at school, yes school. Let's not forget my favorite realm of Hell.

Back when I first moved with my folks, I had switched schools. I was appeased by the idea of changing my image, but I didn't see the point. I didn't want to be anyone other than who I was.

Self image, no matter how poor, was one of the few things I had to be prideful of.

I was glad to, for the first time in my life, be able to choose the classes I took.

Hello Psychology.

Hello Graphic Arts and Design.

Hello Multi-Media.

Hello Political Economics.

Hello Drafting and Architectural Critique.

It was nice.

The teachers were fake, full of smiles and faux understanding, but at least they didn't ignore everyone.

And the bullies weren't as severe at this school. They merely used words.

I didn't mind words.

And friends? Oh, friends. I actually had friends here. And I didn't even have to make them on my own. Nope. I simply sat down at a random table in the Commons Room and pulled out a handheld, and within minutes, the table was full and fellow gamers were talking to me like they'd known me forever and a day.

Eric, Ike, Blaze, Kimmi, Jeremy, Tyler, Tabatha, Kat, Annie, Kenny… -These are people who understand me. These are people I connect with.

For a while, things are bearable.

I like my classes; I like my friends; I even like my enemies.

Seriously, when my bullies attack, I learn to verbally retaliate, and it's almost a game of wit.

I have wit, so I was equipped for this much.

And things are fine.

Good stuff happening at school. Things going semi-smoothly at home. Money coming from work. I'm happy.

But, remember my online friends? One of which is Mello?

Mello starts giving me mixed signals.

Mello wants to be friends. Only.

Mello sends me dirty pictures of himself.

Mello likes girls and wants children.

Mello tells me he loves me.

Mello's a complete heterosexual.

Mello wants me to move in with him.

Mello's suddenly mad at me for no reason. (Must be PMS.)

Mello says he's looking for a girl, but he still wants me to live with him.

Mello loves me again.

Mello hates me.

Mello loves me.

Mello ignores me.

Mello apologizes.

Mello misses me.

Mello wants me to be his pet. To move in with him and his future family. To be there for him. To love and not be loved.

Mello… is cruel.

Mello toys with my emotions.

More dirty pictures.

Talk of sex and what we could do to each other… if he were gay.

Talk of him and I as a couple.

Sweet nothings that will never be anything.

Emails that I save because I don't have the heart to delete them.

His number at my fingertips every time I pick up the phone.

His name on my lips and his picture on my nightstand.

-I… am in love.

…

Josh takes up a large portion of my life. School takes up a large portion of my life. Family takes up a large portion of my life. -Add all that up, multiply it my seven with an exponent of nine… and it still doesn't come close to how much of my life is occupied by Mello.

There's no room in my life for me.

How did that happen?

Try as I might, I don't have an answer.

…

Mom's meds are finally under control. She has more good days than bad and isn't practically comatose anymore, thank Goddess.

But with this blessing comes another curse.

She's still needing surgery after surgery. I'm still needed at home to the point where I don't have much of a life outside these walls.

And the kids, though growing older and more responsible, are growing into monsters.

The eldest of the three kids is getting violent: hitting me, shoving me into doors and walls, tripping me, and beating me with plastic toys.

The middle child is putting holes in the walls, breaking things, becoming violent too. I saw him hit mom.

And the youngest, the only girl, is too young to do such things at the moment… though I hold little hope for the future.

-I just can't catch a break.

…

Josh eventually leaves; he's not going to the army like he planned. Instead, he's getting married.

_That's nice, congratulations._

I pretend to be happy for him.

In reality, a big gap is formed in my life… and the emptiness is filled with more Mello.

I call Mello.

Mello calls me.

I send Mello emails.

Mello sends replies, sometimes with dirty pictures attached.

We exchange letters.

He's well aware of my obsession with him, and yet he knowingly fuels it.

I love him. I hate him. I don't want to love or hate him.

I wanna be a kid again so that I don't have to think about this shit.

I wanna be a kid again so that I can paint my nails and play pretend.

I wanna be a kid again because it's so much easier than growing up.

Bottom line is, my heart is aching. It's breaking with every smile I get from hearing his voice because I know he'll never feel the same. It's breaking for every bit of laughter we share and every breath I hear him take. It's breaking for every email he takes the time to type and send.

It's breaking… and no one can help me pick up the pieces.

People try, and I'm thankful, but there is no cure to the bitchslap that is given each time I say _I love you _and, in turn, I hear _I know._

But even that much is a blessing.

Because a cruel Mello is better than no Mello at all, I think. I dunno; I'm tired of thinking. I'm tired of a lot of things. But mostly, I'm tired of being responsible... or, haven't you noticed?

* * *

**/Would've been longer and made more sense, but I'm a bit depressed at the moment, so… just Review. Thank you./**


	14. The Dream

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **Sorry for this being so short, but I think it should be appreciated.

…

* * *

**The Dream**

Things are going well, minus my constant heartbreak.

Actually, I'd go as far as to say that things are going great.

We got a trampoline. I remove my shoes before climbing on… And, as I begin to bounce and jump, I close my eyes and, for a moment, I'm flying; I'm a gymnast; an acrobat; a cheerleader; a beautiful specimen placed on earth to be marveled!

This fantasy lasts until either my eyes open or I make an ungraceful landing.

Then, I'm not Matt: the beautiful; no, I'm simply Matt: the awkward.

Then, my eyes close again and I'm whoever I want to be. I'm smiling; I'm happy. My nails are painted and my body is nimble, holding all the curves I need and not a one more.

For another perfect moment, I'm Matt: the loved.

-It's unfortunate that my eyes can't stay closed forever. I can't play pretend all the time. Reality calls to me; haunts me; devours me.

And I am Matt: the destroyed.

Thankfully, I still have enough zest for life to pull my shoes back on, get off the trampoline, and walk to the porch.

Mom's standing on the porch, leaning on the railing and smoking a cigarette. That dirty, foul, disgusting cancer stick. It's leaping back and forth between her mouth and fingers: a poisonous frog kissing her breath away.

Her teeth are yellow; her fingers stained by the tar from the filter. Her lungs are blackened and she's coughing.

But she won't quit killing herself.

So, why should I make an effort to better myself?

-I go inside, feed the dogs, make some coffee and head to my room. My music goes on with the volume up too loud, like any other rebellious teenager. I'm rocking out to the latest from Linkin Park, Papa Roach, Godsmack, and the slightly out-of-place Good Charlotte.

Anything that suits my fancy at that point in time.

Empty soda cans are lined across every flat surface in my room; my tv's on mute; and I'm focusing on the guitar solos of the songs I like; I'm focusing on the lyrics that seem to mirror my soul; and I'm falling back on my bed to look at the ceiling that separates me from the heavens above.

Closing my eyes, I'm weightless and perfect. Like a lovely little space monkey.

Opening my eyes, I'm just me.

-Leaving my room for a chance at a cup of coffee, I'm greeted by my family.

The fighting kids who shout obscenities that even I dare not say.

Mom leaning against the wall because she fell but was fortunate enough to catch herself this time.

And dad filling up his water bottle at the sink.

It gets to the point where I'm standing there, staring, and all I can think is: This Is My Life.

The carpet needs vacuumed; the dishes need put away; and the animals are already out of water.

Standing there, I'm just wondering what to do first and when to do it.

Standing there, I decide to turn back to my room and lock myself in.

Things have been going well, yes, but I don't want to face the world. I have no desire to. I just want to keep to myself for a while.

So that's what I do.

Closing my eyes yet again, I'm alone.

I'm at peace until I open my eyes and actually feel lonely.

So I call Mello; his number is dialed before I bother to think of it.

-We have a system. I call, let it ring two times, and hang up. He calls back. The same thing applies when he calls, lets it ring twice, hangs up and waits for me to return the call.

I don't fully understand it; then again, I don't care.

I simply get ahold of him and greet him like any other time.

_Heya, how goes it?_

And he says: _Heh, what's up?_

And I know that's a scarcely hidden barb at my height. But I don't mind right now. No, I'm focused on saying: "_Talk to me. I'm lonely. So, what's up_?"

And he tells me what's up. But really… there's _nothing_ up. Just his parents at work and his chores unfinished: chores he never does anyways.

I can't help but feel envious… because, his life seems so simple and although I tell him everything, there's a lot I'm hiding. And, yes, that makes sense… because there's nothing I won't tell him… except the things I have trouble admitting to myself.

Y'see, I'll reveal a lot about myself without worry, but it's the things I won't say that are the most horrific. It is only when I can actually talk about those problems that I am truly healing from the wounds they'd caused.

-And what I'm hiding… is the blood on my pillow.

Yes, blood.

And it's not from cutting. But for the record, now when I am cutting, it's on purpose; I'm not blacking out anymore. When I hurt myself, I know exactly what I'm doing. Maybe it's to relieve stress. Maybe it's a power trip for me. I'm not sure; then again, I don't care.

But, back to the blood that is on my pillow.

_How did it get there?_

I'll tell you.

I woke up, and it was there; that's it. No angst, no magic, and no slaughter.

I should probably cry; I should probably care; I should probably go tell mom or see a doctor.

Because the blood that was on my pillow spilled from my nose and mouth, and it's not the first time.

But I don't want mom to worry… especially since she's already trying to work up the courage to explain to Doctor Cathy that the bruises all over her are from her abusive grandkids.

No, mom can't know.

My heart ache is mine, and the blood I spit up is mine. And my secrets are mine. And those perfect moments in my head -the dreams I have when I close my eyes, they're mine. No one else's. I need them more that you do, so fuck off. Let me close my eyes and see the lies that I've created.

Because I'm Matt: the dreamer.

That's who I am. Even when I'm sad, or sick, or hurt. I'm everything I want to be, even if it's all pretend. That's what I want; that's how I cope. That is what I do… or, haven't you noticed?

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**/Short, but good enough. Please Review. Thank you./**


	15. The Opossum

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **Nothing to say. Sorry. Read and Review.

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**...**

**The Opossum**

It's another peaceful moment on the trampoline, but this time it's dark out. I can see the stars so clearly; I wanna touch 'em. Laying on my back, I reach up towards them, and though I can't reach the sky's perfect blemishes, I imagine that my fingers are threading the heavens. It's a beautiful concept, but that's all it is: a concept.

An idea.

-I locate the constellations; I fancy the idea of how clever the universe is.

But then I get cold and realize that I should head inside. It's not warm enough to sleep outside under the stars, though I'd done so more than once or twice. The chilly winds are warding me away, and I give into its demands, slipping on my shoes and heading to the porch. Up the few steps and onto the landing; one hand finds the railing while the other moves to grip the latch.

I press the clutch on the door's latch but don't pull it open. My attention is stolen by motion in my peripherals, and I snap my full attention to what it is.

I easily deduce that the movement is an animal of sorts; anything from a large rodent or tom cat to a blood-spilling fox. Upon further inspection, I see that it's a rather large opossum, weighing at least 25 pounds by the looks of it.

The door cracks open, but it's not from me pulling it. No, instead it's the dog forcing it open. Before I can stop him, his speed exceeds my own and he slips between my legs, immediately chasing after the fat opossum.

Fear grips me for a moment because the dog is not mine or mom's. It's dad's dog. And if anything happens to that dog, I'll be in deep shit.

And that's all I can selfishly think about as I grab a nearby shovel, hop the railing and run towards the now-dueling animals. I halt with a leg on either side of Cosmo (the dog); both hands grip the splintering handle of the shovel and I raise it high before taking a swing.

I hit the opossum with the flat end of the shovel and it rolls away from Cosmo's reach. To prevent Cosmo from going after it again, I give him a kick in the opposing direction; then my attention is turned back on the opossum. By now it's up and mobile, so I hit it again, this time in the side; then again on its back and on the head. Again and again, I swing the shovel, unrelenting as I bat at the diseased creature.

I beat it.

I destroyed it.

And when I was physically exhausted, panting and sweating despite the cold weather, I finally stopped. I lowered my weapon and looked at the dying opossum. Blood was seeping from its nose, mouth, eyes and various gaping wounds.

Wounds that I'd caused.

I stared at the mess that I had made, and I want to feel ill, but I don't feel much of anything. There's no grief for destroying this animal.

In fact, when it stirs, my onslaught continues with vigor renewed. I continue to beat it until its eyes are bulging and its stomach is swelling, ensuring that some irreparable internal damage is done.

Then it goes limp, and it doesn't move anymore.

And Cosmo watches, seeing this as a victory; he barks and decides to patrol the property line; when he's done, he waits on the porch by the door.

I pay no mind to him. Instead, I focus on the deceased creature whose life I have stolen; I scoop it up on the shovel and dispose of it along the woodline, knowing that something or another will eat it by morning.

Then I put the shovel away and finally allow myself inside; Cosmo tags along.

Seeing my mom passed out, the kids either sleeping or watching a movie, and dad gone (at work, no doubt), I go to the bathroom to wash up. Then I walk to my room and lock myself in.

And I want to cry for what I've done, but no tears come. Nothing comes. Except a soft bit of laughter.

The odd laughter frightens me.

So I do the one thing that makes sense.

I call Mello.

Two rings pass and I hang up.

Mello calls back.

Our usual greetings are passed around with a sickening sort of casualty, but this time he's the one asking me _'what's up._'

And I tell him. "I killed it." And then I laugh, hard. Hysterical. A horrid sound for a morbid situation. And I can't stop laughing.

If he's alarmed, he doesn't show it. He simply asks if I'm tired; he asks if I can elaborate.

I don't elaborate. I'm still laughing.

He patiently waits until my fit of giggles dies down.

I finally explain about the Opossum. I speak about how it could have been diseased and the dog might have contracted something. I simply state that my actions were necessary.

For once, he doesn't say anything. No jokes, no crude remark, and no passive or aggressive statement. Nothing.

A bout of nervousness claims me, and I breathe into the phone to get his attention.

He responds to that; he says: "Look, Matt, I've... I've gotta go. Email me later."

And he hangs up.

And I wonder why I called. What did I expect to him to say? Did I really think he would make an effort to console me? What had I wanted out of that conversation? -Whatever I'd been seeking, I didn't get it, and I suddenly felt bitter.

I went to sleep feeling sad and disappointed.

-I woke up bright and early, only to find dried blood crusted on my face and pillow once more. I want to be worried, but I'm not. I simply strip my bedding so that I can wash it; then I head to the bathroom to wash up again.

In the bathroom, I look into the mirror, and the bloody face that looks at me isn't what I want to see. I imagine rosy cheeks and painted lips; I fancy smoky eye shadow that compliments a warm smile between soft, rounded cheeks. But all I'm seeing, is a boy.

A boy who is meant to do boyish things.

A boy who is sick and getting sicker.

A boy who lives in a world that doesn't care to understand.

And, ultimately, a boy who will never have anything more than the idea of Pretend.

...

Later, I'm blood-free and my feelings haven't changed.

Jen's visiting. She's loud and shrill, literally standing atop a coffee table and boasting her latest affairs.

I just wish she'd shut up or utilize some form of volume control.

Mom's half asleep, head lolling and eyelids drooping. Her shaky hands attract my attention and I notice that her fingernails are blue. -That's a sign that her oxygen intake is low.

She has a respirator that sits in the corner, but she doesn't use it.

And I can't tell her what to do.

I'm not her mother; she's mine.

But this doesn't matter.

No, what matters is the sudden fatigue that sweeps over me; the dizziness that leaves me swaying, leaning against a counter and trying to keep from falling.

I black out.

-I wake up in a lumpy bed at the hospital; IVs are in my arm and sticky electrodes are attached to me all over. I'm in a flimsy gown and nothing else, and I feel terrible.

It sucks being awake. I'm tempted to go back to sleep but, before I can, a nurse is at my side... reaching under my blanket and fiddling with a catheter.

_And my humiliation knows no bounds, dammit._

I bring my hands to my face to hide my embarrassment, accidentally ripping an IV from its weak perch at my vein.

The nurse emits a sound of frustration and turns her attention to the IV, when all I want is for her to leave me alone and let me go back to sleep.

-Mom comes in after a moment; she smells like smoke, so I can guess where she had been and what she'd been up to.

_Outside. Letting that tar build up on her lungs and ultimately poison her._

Mom tells me she's been worried. Says my oncologist is unable to be here and none of the other doctors have settled on a diagnosis.

I don't really care to listen any further.

I wanna go home.

I wanna lay on the trampoline and look at the stars.

I wanna feel at peace.

-The oncologist never shows up, and I go home with the order to get plenty of rest.

Over the next week or so, I start to feel better. Fuck, I'm feeling great minus the vomiting and bloody spittle. But then there's a phone call.

A dreadful chime that goes: _ring, ring, ring._

Mom's there to pick up the phone... but with the cease of the awful ring comes the horrid words.

_Mrs. Jeevas, I'm calling on behalf of your son. Is there any way you two could get down to the office? I have a possible diagnosis, but we require further testing._

...

Yeah, FML.

_Here a test; there a test. Everywhere a test, test._

So many damn tests, and I just want to go home. Thankfully, I sleep through a lot of my hospital stay, but that doesn't matter.

There comes an announcement of Leukemia (as if surviving Lymphoma wasn't enough), which is punctuated by me taking a sip from a glass of water... and when I set the clear glass down, blood is diffusing and making it look like cherry Kool-Aid.

There are many things to say about the struggles that are to come. Many tears and bouts of anger. Many poor attempts at pretending to be okay. Many breakdowns and fits of self-destruction.

My life is so foul that I'm ready to play Opossum.

But the worst part is... I don't even like Kool-Aid... or, haven't you noticed?

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**/Review./**


	16. The Unmentionables

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **I'll go back and edit/proofread this later. For now, enjoy the atrocity.

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**...**

**The Unmentionables**

If I had to describe my _family_ as a product, well... _discount clothing_ comes to mind. A large aisle full of racks that contain clothing that nobody wanted. Shirts that are mislabeled; pants with pockets sewn shut and zippers that get stuck; jackets with buttons missing and cuffs mismatched; and socks with mates that vary in length. 30% off retail price. BOGO. These are my family. Cheap and unwanted. But they're _mine_.

Y'see, my family, as screwed up as it may be, relies on a principle: the idea that no matter how much hate and drama is passed about, in the end, we're still family. There is an irrefutable bond that we share, and we draw on that when times are tough.

Of course, that's a coded way of saying that an aunt can falsely accuse my four year old, mentally disabled nephew of raping someone... and yet she can also ask for money because her own kids are hungry and she wasted her welfare-handouts.

It's cruel and fickle.

If I had to describe _myself_ as clothing, I'd probably be underwear. -_Don't laugh, I'm serious!_ -I'm an essential piece of fabric; my style varies; and when I'm no longer usable, I'm thrown out (or stolen by underwear gnomes!). Even GoodWill won't take me. The idea is taboo because I'm meant to cover only the private things.

_Bless'ed art thou underpants_. -Okay, jokes and metaphors aside. Serious stuff, now.

-I spend my days as I always have. Each day, I awake at the same time; then I set to work performing the same tasks of maintenance as I have for all my days before, and it's mundane.

Routine.

Mom likes to say I'm helpfully habitual. But the truth is: 'It needs done, and if I don't do it, nobody else will.'

So, the enjoyment that comes from gaming is gradually decreasing at the inclination of my own household responsibilities.

I feel like Cinderella, minus the Fairy Godmother, Bibbidi Bobbity Boo, and Happily Ever After.

...

Josh comes to visit after a fight with Amy, his wife. She has an erotic obsession with the Doodle Bops and wants Josh to adopt her five kids... but, as I suspected before their marriage, Josh isn't the sort to be tied down.

He visits with teary eyes and a nonchalant attitude, and the first thing I do upon noticing this is, I offer a game of Badminton followed by a walk.

We grab our preferred rackets -so preferred that we've named them. Mine's Charlie; his is Rodriguez.

We grab a case of shuttle cocks because we usually play hard enough to destroy the birdies after a period of time.

Working up a sweat, repelling the birdie back and forth and running to meet it as it came our way, we enjoy the game, breaking 3 shuttle cocks in the process.

Then, as we stood in the yard, tired and genuinely glad to be around one another again, we take our leave from the property, setting foot on the road to our long walk. He lumbers with every step; he's so much heavier and his legs are so much longer. I patter after him, taking lighter, smaller steps that are more frequent than his. In an odd show of uncalculated compensation, we walk in synch with one another.

We opt for the shorter route, meaning we'll only be walking for about two miles. A little ways in, we stop at a grassy hill and take refuge, laying down and letting the cool greenery touch our skin as we got comfortable.

Laying on our backs, we watch the clouds roll by. _Oh look, a turtle. A castle. etc. _In time, we're tugging at grass and sticks, giving our hands something to do while our bodies relax and our minds work at individual things.

Then, Josh tells me: "Amy said I got her pregnant."

"...'kay," is all I bother with.

He continues. "She said this a while ago... before I married her."

"Yikes," I say, and though the word interjects, I don't put forth any effort to sound concerned.

"It's been a long time, but there's no baby."

This time, I don't say anything.

"I asked what the fuck was going on, and she said that there was no baby. No pregnancy. Nothing. And yet she wants me to adopt her bastard children. But all I want to do is go to work and come home to someone who'll ask me how my fuckin' day was."

I still don't say anything. His voice is mostly apathetic, but the curse words are like small bombs of emotion, exploding into his sentences and quickly clearing away.

"I wanted to love her. I wanted to have a family. But now... I don't love her, and I'm fuckin' obligated to-"

"It's your life," I finally tell him.

And no farther conversation is uttered. Both of us contemplate, but no one says anything.

We bask in a comfortable silence until it gets cold and the sky darkens. It seems like hours have passed but it doesn't feel like it.

"Thanks, Matt, you're cool... y'know, for a kid."

And for a moment, I think to protest the part about me being a kid, but I don't. I take the compliment and get up from my grassy bed. He gets up as well. And then we hit the road again, literally, but we look back and laugh at our bodily imprint on the hill; it's so noticeable.

Josh pointed back, laughing: "It's like nature's way of saying _'Hey, Josh and Matt were here,'_ y'know?"

And I'm laughing too because he's right.

Our laughter dies down and our walk continues. We come full-circle, ending where we started at my property line, but we're not done. We decide to walk again, even though our bodies are physically drained. So, we keep going, seeing all the same sights for a period of time before purposely going off track.

"Where are you going?" I ask, following him.

"Look," he says simply, opening a gate that holds a 'Do Not Trespass' sign.

I feel uneasy but follow anyways; I'm not usually one for rule-breaking; I'm a good kid.

We enter someone else's property line and go through a section of woods that they own, reducing the risk of getting caught. Josh is ahead of me, using his larger stature to clear paths in the brush and thorns. For a while, nothing is said, but then we come to a creek; there's a fallen tree that folds over it in the form of a makeshift bridge. Josh starts to climb across but stops to take a seat in the middle of a high-rise; he lets his feet dangle over the water and I mimic him to do the same.

It's getting much darker; soon it'll be too dark to see our way back, but I said nothing. Instead, I just sat there with Josh and listened to the bullfrog song.

"Peaceful, isn't it?" he asked.

And I shrug, hoping to look cool like he always did. Fuck, his impressions were often at the forefront of my mind, reminding me that being loud and excitable wasn't something 'cool people' did.

It was getting cold, but I wasn't about to complain, and I sure as hell wasn't going to hug myself for warmth in front of Josh.

But one of Josh's arms come around me, and I am placated by warmth. And I notice that he still has that 'teenager smell' of sweat and cologne, but it's different. I lean against him and try not to let him notice I'm smelling him. I can't help it. I entertain the idea of incest but quickly bash myself for how disgusting it is.

_Then again, I've always been open-minded..._

-Josh pulls away from me and says it's time to go, and I'm all too eager to get up and leave. For once, I move ahead of him, leading the way. The jaggers and thorns prick at me, and my small stature doesn't cut through the brush too easily, but I needed to get my stupid hormones to stop feeding me gross ideas.

Before long, we're literally out of the woods and on the road again.

-It starts to rain. Hard. Pouring.

It's dark and raining. So cloudy. Not a star in the sky. In the stix, there's no streetlights or anything. We're surrounded by trees but they don't serve as shelter. My fatigue sets in and is worse than I thought. My senses become impaired and all I can hear is water; all I can see is black, and I'm stumbling blindly until Josh grabs hold of me and asks what's wrong.

I answer honestly, panic in my voice. "I can't see!" I can feel the asphalt beneath my feet; I can feel the water soaking every inch of me, freezing me; and aside from that and Josh's hand on the soaked fabric of my too-thin shirt, I can't register anything else.

"Hang on, kiddo," he says, tugging me along while I follow blindly. "Want me to carry you?" he asks, and I decline. Instead, I grab onto him and stumble, trying to keep up.

It's so cold. My skin's numbing; my feet have no feeling, already soaked through the shoes I wore; and I'm ready to collapse. There's nothing more frightening than being unable to see, feel, or walk.

...

I don't know what happened after that, but I wake up on the trampoline. There's a tarp over it, preventing rain from getting in; there's a flashlight allowing us to see, and there's a chessboard being set up. Taking everything in, I realize that I'm wearing a nice warm coat.

Josh finishes setting up the chessboard before speaking. "I got my coat out of the car for you. I'd have taken you inside, but I figured you'd need a break from the demons inside."

"Y'mean the kids?" I asked, though I probably should have thanked him for the coat.

"Yeah, the demons," he answered, smiling. He gestures to the chessboard. "We'll play a round before going inside. Try not to move too much or you'll upset the pieces."

-And, beneath an ugly blue tarp, with very little light, in the cold, cold night, Josh and I played chess, and everything was good.

It was a close game, and I won. My Queen, Bishop, and Rook easily mated his King, and after a hollow cheer of victory, we cleaned up our makeshift camp and headed inside.

We got into some dry clothes and headed to bed, too tired for a game-athon.

-The next day would prove to be interesting. After getting all the usual chores, cooking and cleaning done, my cousin Megan came to visit. So, her, Josh, and I went for a walk together. There wasn't much else to do.

We picked up a rogue beer can and played 'Kick the Can.'

Between the three of us, we shredded it within a mile of walking. Then we were going to do the same thing with a bottle we found, but... upon discovering a yellow liquid in the bottle, we took a gamble on what might be inside. The unanimous vote was 'urine.'

Then... we kicked the bottle anyways.

After a while, it was my turn to kick, and I lost my footing and ended up stepping on it. From a small hole that had formed, liquid shot out from the pressure I applied... and that liquid... got in my mouth.

Josh and Megan laughed hysterically, pointing and asking what it tasted like.

I simply removed my foot from the bottle and grimaced. My face all scrunched up, I said: "It's lemonade."

And they continued laughing... because it's a well-known fact that I hate lemonade.

But our walk progressed, none the less.

We saw a blue butterfly; it seemed out of place; we paid a lot of attention to the birds, deer, and foxes. We even saw a beaver, which was surprising.

-Josh and I trespassed again; Megan followed. And while in someone else's woods, we started a fire.

Yes, it was intentional, but we figured we'd be able to put it out. It was supposed to be a juvenile thing to do, but things quickly got out of hand. When more than a couple trees were lit, Josh uttered a quiet 'Oh, shit,' and we all took that as our cue to leave. On our way off the property, we noticed a Tuff Jon Porta Potty on an incline of this property, and upon Josh's suggestion, the three of us ventured toward it and toppled it over.

We knew it was wrong, but there was an adrenaline rush to doing it.

It's not our fault it fell down the hill... into that creek. We pushed it; it rolled. It. Should. Not. Have. Rolled. Squared objects don't usually roll, but this one did.

Again, we hightailed it out of there, not even finishing our walk. Instead, we simply headed home, checked on mom, and left.

Josh took me and Megan out to eat. We ate at one of those restaurants that call your name when the food is ready; we all used fake names and laughed about it. Then we joked about other misdeeds we might do.

We ate greasy food that would surely make me throw up soon after, but that's not what mattered. And... on the way out, we all made sure to take our cups with us.

Our non-disposable cups.

Cups that were not meant to be taken.

Cups that we _stole_.

And though it was wrong, I later drank from that cup with pride.

Because I never partied. I never drank or did drugs. The friends I had were for school only; the friends I had didn't need involved in my at-home life. And though I loved my online friends, they couldn't share moments like these with me.

No.

And for once, I was Matt: the delinquent.

Matt: the happy.

And everything was finally coming together. I was able to look past the sickness I didn't deserve and the kids I was saddled with, and I was truly happy.

I can be happy. I can even look past my sickness and enjoy life sometimes. In a world full of discount clothes and stolen cups, I could find myself euphoric. I could live for a cheap thrill. I could really do it.

And I planned to.

...at least, I did until a few days after I'd stolen that damn cup. Because mom talked of another surgery, and the risk that came from this was paralysis; she could end up in a wheel chair or on bed rest. She could be a vegetable. She could...-

And the list goes on and on.

Josh and Megan leave and my heart sinks.

I should stop trying to be happy... because it makes it that much harder to get used to being upset or disappointed.

-In a world of merchandise that is unloved and unwanted, I'm a pair of fuckin' underwear. I'm unmentionable... or, haven't you noticed?

...

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**/Review./**


	17. The Partner

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **Read and Review.

* * *

**...**

**The Partner**

Mom got her surgery and came home in a wheel chair; with any luck, she _should_ be able to walk again eventually. Jen came over to help her while I was at school and, coincidentally, I finally started to prefer my school-life more than my home-life.

Home Economics was interesting because every friend I had there was a pot head -a classic stoner. The good thing about that was that they were more than willing to do all the cooking if I just did the clean up; I considered it a fair trade, and the bonus was: they never even needed a recipe. From their excess _munchies_, they were natural bakers. They especially loved cakes and brownies; anything sweet. -My group was literally the only one that got all A's for what we produced, so it was decidedly cool.

I also had a few friends that were, well... Let's just say most people had never seen them without dopey smiles, high-pitched or slurred voices, reddened faces, and alcohol-laced breath. Gabe was a prime example of friends like this. He was a clown at best, but he was supportive when I was upset, so I appreciated him... Even when he could hardly walk from the effects of _'Night Train_,' and was drunkenly slurring: "Yo, Miss Mondo!" towards a female teacher whose name was 'Milana.' -His jokes were only funny to himself, but others laughed at his expense for making an ass of himself.

Then there was another friend I had; this one rather unique compared to the rest. He was a Senior with dark hair and eyes. For multiple reasons, his name will not be given; we'll call him: L. -L was never one to follow a crowd; rather, a crowd flocked to him. He was quiet, if not a bit rude. He could be nice, if you knew how to properly interact with him... but no amount of propriety could cover his dedication to the ungainly things. Because, yes, he studied law and planned for college, but he was also making money illegally, acquiring and selling various steroids and narcotics.

-Lets focus on L for a moment, shall we? With his unkempt hair and bland clothing, he seemed safe to hit up for a conversation, so I did. He never seemed to have much to say, but when he did, he could at least carry an intelligent conversation, which I appreciated. So, I considered him friend-material.

Then, one day, I found him in the hallway, leaning against a locker, discreetly handing a small plastic bag to one of the jocks.

I quickly caught on to what he was doing, and I confronted him. But... his only response was: "They wanted it, and I had it. I wasn't using it, so I don't see the problem." And he left it at that.

Even still, I hung out with him, glad he never tried to peddle anything towards me.

I decided he was cool.

I dated him.

It was pretty damn cool to have people look at me like I was someone special... even if they only liked me for my boyfriend.

-L took me to my first concert. I was underage, but we drank anyways. I don't remember much other than the strawberry flavored drinks. Our hands on one another. Music pounding so loud. Bodies too close for comfort but senses too gone to disrupt what could, would, and did happen.

We got intimate and I sobered up too late. After that, I didn't know if I should be mad at him for taking advantage, or if I should be cross with myself for drinking in the first place.

-Things with L ended up being casual; very casual. So casual that only a few hours after we'd had sex, he already had his tongue down a stranger's throat while another person tugged at his jeans.

I felt sick, but I still considered L my friend. At least, until he decided I was a liability. -He never disclosed the details, but he left me one day, and though I was upset at first, I got over it.

I dated around, looking for something serious but finding nothing real. I tried to love people. I tried to make them love me. But I was scraping the bottom of the barrel; nothing seemed to work.

Then I met a pale boy with sunken eyes. His name was Near. He was new, coming to school with a quiet sort of confidence that might have even overshadowed L's awkwardness. He walked in with pajamas on; he had no style or class. He had headphones on and sat at a table alone, much like I did on my first day at this mediocre hell.

And, recalling how I felt that first day, I did the kid a favor. I sat next to him. Seconds later, my friends from various cliques sat too. The table filled and I reached a hand to remove the headphones from the pale teen. "Wha'cha listening to?" I asked, pulling the headphones close to my ear and listening for myself.

I instantly recognized Seize the Day by Avenged Sevenfold.

"Nice," I said casually, nodded and setting the headphones down.

He didn't look happy about me touching his things, but he didn't comment.

"I'm Matt," I introduced myself.

He didn't say anything. I wondered if he was shy... until he un-jacked his headphones from his iPod and replaced it with a set of earbuds, slipping one into his ear and the other into my own.

I listened to music from his choice playlist while my other friends talked amongst themselves.

...and this is how I started dating Near.

-He and I got along well, had a lot in common, and we even went to prom together. We had to go separately because it was frowned upon for two guys to hook up. (Damn homophobic society!)

He showed up in a dorky tux that had to cost too much money; his shoes were pointed; his bowtie was crooked; his hair was a mess; and he looked so... -Okay, I could be nice and say he looked cute, or sexy, or whatever, but this was not the case; he just looked like an awkward mess, but I'd never tell him that.

I had wanted to go in drag. I had a really nice dress picked out. It was a deep mocha color with a silver glitter pattern, and I had the best heels to go with it! (Okay, so the dress was Megan's and the shoes were Brittany's, but they would've lent them to me in a heartbeat!) I could have painted my nails and wore a pretty necklace. I could've done my makeup and looked beautiful... but I was doomed to be a boy who wears boyish things.

I ended up showing up at prom in a nice button up shirt, dress pants, and a vest. I'd foregone the jacket and I'll admit that I looked good, but... while at the dance, I borrowed butterfly berets from a friend, and I felt good in them.

I wasn't much of a dancer, but I was determined to have a good time... even if Near didn't want to dance at all. I left him sitting in a corner and danced with my friends.

Gabe was there, and as usual, he was intoxicated with something or another. And as I danced with him to something fast-paced, L joined in. (Strangely, this would be the first time I'd seen L in months.)

I didn't even pay any heed to where L had come from or who was grinding against who, but I was enjoying myself until the music switched to something slower and I realized that Near was standing only a few feet away from me, arms crossed and frown in place.

I suddenly felt guilty, but I'd done nothing wrong. I thought to say something, but before I could, he was already walking away and shaking his head. Somehow, it seemed so much more forlorn than it should have.

I was going to after him, but before I could even take a step, Gabe's hands were on me and he was shouting something in my ear. I cringed at the high volume and shoved him away. Then, L handed me a beverage in a little plastic cup. He casually asked if I was enjoying myself, and I actually had to think about it before answering.

After a moment, I gave a nod.

He asked where my 'date' had been.

I told him I didn't know.

Then Gabe was laughing at something or another.

I don't know; I was getting a headache. I chugged my drink and placed the cup on a random table. I headed for the doors, needing fresh air. My head was killing me, and the music and flashing lights were making it worse, if you can imagine.

I exited with both L and Gabe in tow. Gabe was acting like an ass, and L, though much quieter, wasn't being much help.

L asked if I wanted to go home; said he'd give me a ride.

Of course, after realizing that Near did, in fact, leave already, I agreed. I got into L's car without a second thought. I buckled up and waited patiently to be taken home... but L had no intention on taking me directly home.

He said he had a few stops to make first.

Gabe didn't come with us; instead, he went back to the dance with plans to spike the punch with Bourbon.

-L ended up making deliveries. I didn't ask what he was handing people as he traded small bags for large amounts of cash. I simply watched from my seat in the car. Then came the final stop he had to make. This time, when he pulled into the driveway, his hands rested on the wheel and he offered me an awkward sideways glance. "I need you to make this delivery for me," he said.

I gawked at him. "Wha?"

"Yeah," he said. "One of my biggest clients live here, but I'm not exactly welcome. I need a third-party person to do the exchange. Matt, this is where you come in."

I didn't say anything. Even as he reached over and unbuckled my seatbelt for me. Even as he placed a bag in my lap and nudged me towards the door. Even when he verbally told me to 'get going.'

Now, I'm not sure why, but I did as he asked. I wordlessly, got out of the car, bag in hand. And I walked up to the door, raising a hand to knock. Before my fist even came in contact with the wooden surface, the door flung open and the bag was snatched. I just stood there, surprised and a little confused. Money was forced into my hand through a crack in the door, and I just barely caught a glimpse of the person inside.

And I recognized that person. My mouth went dry as the door slammed shut, and I trudged back to the car, getting in and handing the money to L.

"Thanks, Matt. You did good." He tossed a 20 dollar bill my way and tucked the rest of the money into his pocket. He put the car in reverse, and we were off.

I said nothing for a while, but curiosity got the better of me. And I eventually had to open my mouth. "What did Light buy from you?"

"Oh? You know him?" L asked casually, ignoring my question and posing his own.

I nodded. "Yeah... He goes to the vocational school, but I see him almost every morning. He always buys a 12 ounce bottle of Pepsi, drinks half and asks me if I want the rest."

Then it was L's turn to be quiet for a brief period of time. Then, much to my surprise, he answered my previous question. "Amphetamines."

Again, silence consumed us.

He took me home, dropped me off.

I went inside to find mom asleep in her wheel chair, Jen asleep on the couch, and dad sitting at the table.

I walked over and sat across from dad, noticing that he looked fairly mad at noticing the berets; so I cautiously removed them and placed them on the table.

"You enjoy your dance?"

I nod.

"Dance with any girls?"

Hesitantly, I nod. (I'd danced with_ a lot_ of people.)

"Fuck anyone?"

I cringe but shake my head.

"You lyin' to me, pussyboy?"

Sighing, I shake my head again. "No, sir." I hated when he would call me that, but when he was mad, the terms _'pussy'_ or _'pussyboy'_ were more like endearments compared to other things he might say.

He looks thoughtful for a moment before nodding at my responses. "Good. No, go wash up, get out of those ridiculous clothes, and get to bed. But before bed, there's a message on the answering machine for you. Listen to it." With that, he got up and headed to his room.

Watching him leave, I released a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Being around my dad was always tense because I'd seen him violent more than once.

Still, I decide to get up and check that message; I'll wash up and get ready for bed afterwards.

I venture over and press the play button. Then I listen.

At first, there's only static and heavy breathing. The way the message cuts in and out, someone had clearly called from a cellphone. Then the voice comes, and I recognize it instantly.

_"Matt? You there? Probably not. In case you h-haven't realized it yet, this is Near. I-I just wanted to apologize. I'm a firm believer that if anything goes wrong, one needs only to say 'sorry.' So, I'm sorry."_

I frowned at hearing that. He sounded genuinely upset. I figured I'd call him in the morning and make amends.

I deleted the message and went to the bathroom to clean myself up and get into a pair of sweatpants before bed.

...

Morning comes, and before I can remember to call Near, I receive a phone call. The caller ID has his number, but the person on the other end is his mother. And she's telling me that he never made it home. She was furious and crying, and again I felt guilty. I wanted to console her, but I didn't quite know how. I was still trying to assess my feelings on his disappearance when she yelled a rather surprising line.

_"Don't bother coming to his funeral!"_

And my chest ached. How could it not? I was supposed to be his boyfriend. And, just like that, he was _dead_? How? What had happened? Was it an accident? Suicide? Was it my fault? I had so many questions that went unanswered. And I could only wonder if things might have been different if I could have persuaded him to be my dance partner. Who knows? He might have liked it; might have considered it fun.

We might have made great partners.

I always did love to dance, to rave, to move in synch with an upbeat rhythm, even if I wasn't very good at it... or, haven't you noticed?

...

* * *

**/Review./**


	18. The Metronome

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **Read and Review, but be generous! I ran out of brain juice towards the end, so it's a little nonsensical and choppy.

**...**

* * *

**The Metronome**

Sometimes when I walk, I'm almost dancing in the snow -only, I'm not really dancing beause that would imply some form of grace or normality. No, instead of dancing or walking or anything of the sort, I'm stomping and sloshing through banks of snow that are piled 7-12 inches high. And as I go from Point A to Point B, I can't help looking back at my trailing footprints. They look so big compared to the size of my actual feet, and in my mind, I'm contemplating the ratio.

My brain refuses to make sense of the issue. Feet are funny like that; toes are funny too if you stare at them too long, but I like to think I'm mature enough not to delve on the subject for too long.

All in all, this is a rather trivial and pointless matter of the mind and body. However, my musings and snow stomping lead me to a bus stop, and a bus takes me to school.

And at school is where things get interesting.

-Ever read the Pit and the Pendulum? If not, then what the hell is wrong with you? Go read it! It is fear-evoking. The story is about the tortures forced upon a prisoner of the Spanish Inquisition... Put yourself in his place and try not to have a heart attack or something... because you know it's eventually going to kill you; no human being can endure that kind of sadism for too long, but there's no way out; nothing to do but wait for death to befall you.

Terrible, isn't it? Almost paralyzing to think about. Well, rumors work the same way. You can hear the distant voices whispering; see people exchanging horrid expressions as they pass along the secret. And... by the time the news reaches you, your heart stops... because it's not only_ about you_ and _what you did_; it's also _false_.

You're branded a murderer. -Except, it's not you; it's _me_.

I'm finally away from being mocked and scolded and beaten for being abnormal, and now Near's death is thought to be on my hands.

Fate is cruel, isn't it?

Still, the few people I can rely on crowd around me supportively. There's this guy I know; his name is TJ. He's sort of a friend of a friend, but I've heard enough stories about him to feel like I know him. He's a sweet talker. He has his arms around me, telling me all the words I want to hear. I'm actually comforted by a technical stranger until his mouth becomes attached to my neck and his hand snakes between my legs, groping.

Then I'm panicking. I don't know him and the gesture is unwelcomed; after all, my boyfriend died so recently, and I'm going through enough turmoil; I shouldn't have to worry about _'players'_ trying to slip me the dick or anything.

Naturally, I shove him away and tell him to fuck off. He's repulsive and I suddenly want nothing to do with him.

Gabe's there with wide eyes, and for once, he's actually speechless; he's not making himself out to be a drunken fool. He almost appears sober.

Eric's there, but he's playing Kirby on a handheld and, though he usually has no interest in my affairs, he looks pissed; I can tell by the way his wide eyes narrow behind his thick glasses and his fingers move more animatedly over the buttons; he's put his hands on autopilot in favor of paying attention to my ordeal. (Had I thought about it, I'd be flattered, but my mind was on other things.)

Ike's there, braiding Kat's hair in a way that reminds one of Pippi Longstocking; and he's listening to something on his MP3; he can't hear what's going on, but his caterpillar-like brows are furrowed at the commotion, and I don't blame him.

Kat's having her hair braided by Ike (By the way, I don't know why we call him Ike; his real name's Austin. _Shhh_!), and her thick British accent cuts through the tension as she tells TJ to get lost and find a hooker; she says I'm too good for him, and I kinda hope she's right. (Speaking of her accent... I don't know if it's legit or not. Y'know how some people adopt faux accents when they think they can pull it off? Well, I can't tell with her. She says she was born in London; says her folks moved when she was two. I dunno. But, hey! She has the stereotypically bad teeth! So... maybe?)

Lastly, Kenny and Blaze are there. Kenny looks a bit like a zombie, eyes half lidded and a Quest on Monster Hunter in progress on his PSP. Blaze... is trying to cheer me up? That's new.

TJ was ushered away from the Commons Room table, but all I could focus on was Blaze removing his shirt and swinging it 'round his head like a stripper. "Whoa, Matty! Looks like you're getting an early birthday present!" he jokes, turning away from me and shaking his ass in my face.

He looks ridiculous and, despite the discomfort I was feeling, I stifled a laugh. "You're such an asshat," I told him, slapping him lightly on the behind and quickly retracting my hand.

Kenny's eyes widen a fraction; he's usually shy. He's got the kind of eyes people hope to attain via colored contacts, but his are natural. He puts his PSP away and balances an Sociology book on his head. He's such a weirdo, but his looks make up for it. (Admittedly, I'd soooo sleep him with, but I'm not a whore and I like to be wined and dined and shit. -Okay, so maybe nothing _that_ fancy, but a stuffed animal and a trip to a fast food restaurant is always nice. _-And no, that's not a guide to getting into my pants_.)

Kat sits on my lap and hugs me. It would be comforting if her breath didn't smell so bad. Still, I smile and thank my friends. All of them. Because my friends truly are something amazing, going out of their way to be there for me.

But then Light shows up, all smile and charm and good looks and pristine _everything_. He's dressed proper, hair combed just right and messenger bag slung over his shoulder; he's holding a half-empty_ (or is it half-full?)_ bottle of Pepsi. As per usual, he sets in on the table in front of me and says: "Want the rest? I'm not going to finish it."

Usually, I'd accept or decline depending on whether or not I was thirsty. (I wasn't bothered by drinking after him; he was too clean to be diseased.) But unlike most days, my mind went into overdrive, trying and succeeding in seeing through his façade. For once, I didn't see the perfect student who was so well put together. For once, I saw him as the shifty-eyed pathological liar with a nice smile and the desire to be perfect: a desire that, at the very least, seemed to require amphetamines... which were supplied by L.

Piecing together all the little details, it all seemed so tedious and trivial. I began to look around at all my friends and wonder if they were hiding things like Light hid drugs or I hid my home life. I began to wonder what masks they wore and what lies they told; I began to wonder... if I really knew any of them.

-Light pulled me from my thoughts by coaxing Kat from my lap and giving me a hug; his temple touched mine and his mouth lingered by my ear, warning me with a hiss of: "you tell anyone anything about me, and I'll expose everything you don't want them to know. Whether or not it's true won't matter; people are more inclined to believe me than you."

I was speechless. He'd never appeared anything but kind; yet, as he pulled away from the hug and bade a farewell, I couldn't return the closure. I was confused and more than a little worried.

I was in a world full of strangers... and the ones closest to me, _my friends_, were the most dangerous people of all. They could hurt me; they could ruin me. They knew my secrets and weaknesses. They could pick me up when I'd fallen down, but what if they decided not to? What if they decided to stomp on me like everyone else? What if one day... I lost everything. Real or fake, both were precious. And it all mattered too fucking much.

In my mind, I felt cornered.

Looking around, I felt smothered.

Getting up from my chair with a start, I make a break for it, running out of the Commons and into the long narrow hallway.

-Had this been a movie, the hallway would have become more narrow, longer. Distorted. A filter would be put over the camera lens to achieve the desired effect of vertigo, and I might never reach my destination.

But this was not a movie. And I did make it down the hall. And I ran to the last door on the right, entering the Art 4 room where Mrs Koski sat atop a desk, coffee cup in one hand and a romance novel in the other. Her eyebrows were painted on unevenly, and her lips were injected with far too much collagen, but... she wasn't like everyone else. She was fake, but at least she didn't hide it; she flaunted it.

"Koski!" I greeted sharply, nearly out of breath already. She sets her book down after dog-earring the page; then she looks at me, giving the most fake smile I'd ever seen.

"How's my favorite little convict, today?" she asked comically, referencing my tendency to wear striped clothing.

I don't comment on it. I simply close the distance between us and sit next to her on the desk. My eyes get acquainted with the dirty floor tiles and I don't say anything.

She speaks to fill the silence. "Matt, do you need something?"

Slowly, I nod, but I'm not sure if I'm being honest. I don't know what I need, if anything. I just know that I don't want to be around people.

Because people lie.

People are fake.

People are capable of hurting me.

"Matt, talk to me," she says, setting her cup down and getting up.

Hearing her noisy shoes clack against the floor, my gaze is drawn to her. I watch her carefully as she walks across the room to a closet. She opens it and retrieves two smocks. She slips one on and tosses the other in my direction. Without needing to be told, I mimic her, clothing myself in the stained garb. She grabs a set of canvas boards and places them on easels.

I wordlessly go to a cupboard and gather various paints, brushes, and pallets before rejoining her.

"I'm thinking landscape," she said, looking through the earth-tone colors. "What about you, Matt?" she asked kindly.

I say nothing, but I'm glad for the distraction. Instead of making small talk, I grab the first color that comes to mind -it's a nice bright color which I soften the tone of by mixing it with a dab of blue -and rather than turning it a milky purple color altogether, it settles as a summery pink, like yogurt.

We barely get our 'wash' over the canvas before the bell rings. (For those who don't know, a 'wash' is a light base coating that is applied before any detail work; most paintings start with a light colored wash. Mine's a pastel purple that fades into a yogurt-pink; it's two toned and a good start for what I hope to accomplish.)

With the bell's chime comes the signal to clean up. The pallets are covered and stored away; the brushes are washed and set aside; the paints and smocks are put up as well. Then I bid a quiet '_g'bye_' to Koski and hurriedly make it to the class I'm supposed to be in.

It's one of my favorites. Granted, it's only Biology (which is 'uber easy, mind you) but the teacher is fantastic! He lets me do work that has nothing to do with our curriculum... as long as I get my actual work done first.

So, yes, we study up on the anatomy of a fetal pig and then begin the dissection. We worked in groups of two. I was teamed with a girl named Monica Kuosezki. Ugh, fuck if I didn't want to rip her hair out and maker her choke on it.

She was quiet, but not in the way most people are quiet. She whispered quietly and giggled loudly; she tapped her pencil against every hard surface she could reach; she also found too many reasons to grab my ass.

Working with her was a nightmare.

Oh, and she was a hair-puller! Not _my_ hair, but her _own_. She would dig her fingers into her long black hair, grab a handful of the silky strands and yank, tearing globs of it out by the follicles... and then she'd drop her DNA all over the place: be it the floor, table, or wherever.

Damn, she was gross. And she smelled like fruit. All the time. I swear, it was like she lived in an orchard. (Though she probably just doused herself in body spray or something; I dunno. Do chicks do that?)

Still, if you couldn't guess, she was weird... and prissy. She refused to touch the cold piglet that reeked of formaldehyde. So... it was up to me to do it all. The cutting, the pinning, and the displaying of organs.

_Ah, so that's what a duodenum looks like.  
Is the liver supposed to be that color?  
Oh... this one has testes rather than ovaries. It's a boy. I'm such a proud parent._

In my mind, I name the little guy Pip. I entertain the idea that he has a personality all his own, but all my partner wants to do is sit back and text her friends; she's not even paying attention to the which part of the mouth is the hard or soft pallet. Instead, she's standing off to the side, texting her friends, and because of her lack of participation, I'm very much tempted to point out the organs and mislabel them so that she might fail her upcoming test... but even I'm not _that_ mean. So, when I point out every inch of the little fetus, I'm being honest, showing what I know.

Despite her lack of tentativeness, we finish early and I, as per usual, strike up a conversation with the teacher. He's amazingly smart, and he fuels my imagination. He even gives me handouts on Nitroglycerine and Sodium Citrate and what does and does not mix well with them.

-_What can I say? Maybe I'm secretly a chemist at heart; or... maybe I'm a terrorist in the making. Grrr._

But jollies and nonsensical things like that aside, I learn interesting uses for liquid Nitrate and am soon ready for my next class.

All despair from earlier seemed to have left me, and I hadn't heard a word of the aforementioned rumors... until I reached Study Hall.

-Now, let me explain something about Study Hall. Study Hall is, as the name implies, meant for studying, but that's never what I used it for. Instead, I bartered myself a forged pass, handed it to Mr. Hissom (Study Hall Rep), and wandered the halls. When I wasn't wandering the halls, I was slipping into the computer lab for a bit of online gaming.

MMO's, bitches!

But today was different. Today I did neither of those activities. Nope. Today, I opted for venturing back down to the art room with Koski. And we geared up to continue our painting. Before I can even add to the painting itself, I needed to lightly map out my design and begin to mix my colors. While doing so, I ventured to the cupboard for brushes with finer tips, only to catch bits of an ongoing conversation that I wanted nothing to do with.

_"So, like, he just killed Near?! Poor, poor Near!"_

_"That's not what I heard. I heard it was suicide. Because Matt's such an emo fucker, he had to mess with Near's head. Make him want to die. And... the worst part is, Matt's not even sorry or remorseful for it.__"_

_"Wow... Y'know, rumor has it... that Matt had problems at his old school. Maybe he killed people there, or made them kill themselves. Do you think...-?"_

_"Maybe he's one of those crazies with hit-lists!"_

"NO!" I shout unwittingly, unable to stop myself. Tears are brimming my eyes and the paintbrush in my hand has snapped. "I... No. I didn't. It's not like that. I never...-"

...the rest of the day progressed with me unconsciously zeroing in on similar conversations, but each one was worse than the last; each one entailed some gory detail of what I did to the boy I dated, was fond of, but never loved. -Of course, those were the choice words I caught during Trigonometry, but they were disturbingly accurate.

I was fond of Near... but I could never love him. Not like I loved... Mello.

-And there you have it.

That is a whole other soul-crushing thing to dwell on. And I lose focus. Because everything is flooding me at once.

It's the friends I can't trust because they're fake. It's Light on amphetamines, getting good grades and pleasing everyone except himself. It's L selling drugs and listening to his libido more than his brain. It's my overly fake teacher, Koski, who distracts me from pain with the art we do together. It's the formulas and chemicals, covalent bonds, and utter bullshit that I don't need to know, but so desperately _want_ to know... if only to give myself _something_ impersonal to think about. It's the way people, strangers and comrades alike, talk about me and my alleged deeds like I'm not two feet away from them. It's the way I feel in regards to Near's death, which I know so little about, in truth. And, ultimately, it's the best friend I'd grown to love a little too much.

None of it was planned, but every bit of it caused pain.

Even the good parts... because they're so few and far between and do nothing but tease me of what could be but never would.

And it hurts.

And before I can help it, I'm breaking down.

Like a lunatic, I'm dodging out of the classroom and racing through the halls. I'm hiding in a corner, burying my face in my hands and pretending to be alone... even though there is a crowd gathering around me. Their whispers haunt me, and I'm waiting for death to befall me.

_This is my Spanish Inquisition._

Kill me already.

This torture's gone on long enough.

Spare me further pain.

Take my life... and cleanse those whose lives I've sullied.

Purify what I have ruined. Ruin me in turn.

Break me.

Into a million little pieces.

And then throw me away.

Because I am not worthy of being fixed.

My heart rate is off the charts; my breathing is sporadic. And time ticks away. A figurative metronome. Counting down the time. Second by second. And one day, it'll all come to an end. And then, like... what?

What happens when it's over? Really? Think about it. One day, everything we know will be gone... and we'll be gone... and... like, what?

Because there is no legacy to leave behind. We are simple people living in our own personal Purgatory. We're watching life pass us by because we're too scared and confused to do much else.

And the seconds tick away.

Tick. Tock.

A metronome.

The stars and the planet alignment and shit.

And all that other bullshit that's supposed to mean something.

It. Doesn't. Mean. A. Thing.

We're all just people. We're lined up at the gallows. Waiting for that guillotine to bless us with the judgment we fear but inwardly accept.

It is on our own free will that we walk up to our deaths.

And that is the sole thought that spares agony.

That is bliss.

Because everything is in position. And the blade's about to fall.

And.

_Tick. Tock._

-And then it's over. The day comes to an end, and I wake up alone.

Dried blood on my pillow and hand clutching the tv remote.

And, as I've done so many times before, I lay there -expression blank- and I think: _'This. Is. My. Life_.'

Then again, I've been dwelling on this particular truth more frequent than not... or, haven't you noticed?

...

* * *

**/I went a bit brain dead towards the end, but another chapter's done. -Review./**


	19. The Dirty

**Title: **Haven't You Noticed

**Summary: **Often in pain with an apathy fueled by scorn. Always spit on and shoved to agree. Always left alone. Always, always, always cast aside and abandoned at the slightest sign of inconvenience… Or, haven't you noticed? -Angst in Matt's POV.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **Read and Review, but be generous! I ran out of brain juice towards the end, so it's a little nonsensical and choppy.

**...**

* * *

**The Dirty**

Let me just say that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not being guilty. I'm sorry for wasting everyone's time.

I am so fuckin' sorry that I'm not who I used to be, nor can I truly revert back to said person. I've changed. Everyone has changed. The world is evolving, and it's not always for the better.

-Honestly, it was all such a cruel joke, or so I wanted to tell myself. It was meant to be a bout of harmless tomfoolery (like when Mikami placed a giant wad of chewed up bubble gum on the combination dial of Takada's locker). But that doesn't change the fact that I was finally framed for having a hit list. Someone made up a threatening note consisting of names, and they slipped it into my locker; then there came a routine locker search that ended with me being the accused. -Between the school board and my parents, it was decided that I not only seek professional help, but also relocate.

Mom and dad weren't willing to move, and any other school district was too far away.

I was sent to live with my sister Jen, which meant I'd be going back to my old school -y'know, the one where the bullies beat the shit out of someone for having a slightly repulsive and nonconforming nature.

-I feel like complete shit as I pack my things and try to explain to my parents that I'd never hurt anyone, but they don't listen. Any by the time my sister comes to pick me up, I have a one-track mind.

_'Sorry for wasting everyone's time; and sorry for wasting my breath. Nobody listens anyway.'_

-I throw all my clothes and personal items in the blazer; mom hands Jen some money for any expense I might addle her with; and when Jen and I are settled side by side, buckled up, practically impaled by the musty scent of the vehicle's moldy interior, she turns to me and, with a peppy and upbeat voice, she says: "Hey, kiddo, it's cool that you're gonna be stayin' with me, huh?"

And I don't say anything. Instead, I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets... as if blinding myself will also make the world blind to my existence.

"It's gonna be fun." She's trying too hard, talking to me in the too-sweet voice that new parents unnecessarily use on infants.

I just want to die at this point. Nobody understands. My friends will probably think the worst and I'm being sent away. (If I hadn't agreed to go live with my sister and go to my old school, I'd be sent to some sort of boarding school... in which I'd be less likely to cope very well.)

"We'll play card games," Jen's still trying to cheer me up. And she sucks at it. (Where's Blaze, with his horrible stripper moves and jiggly ass? That _might_ make me smile again.) "We'll play Uno, and Skipbo, and Phase 10. Rummy and Poker. You name it, and we'll play it." She's trying so hard, and I feel uncomfortable.

I shift uneasily in my seat and turn my gaze out the window. And my voice is quiet as I finally ask: "What games y'got?"

"Monopoly and Clue and Yatzee...-"

"_Videogames_," I correct her and amend what could have been an extensive rant of board games that I had no intention on playing.

She seems thoughtful before replying: "We have a SEGA Genesis; there's a couple games for that. And we have a PlayStation; and... you can borrow the neighbor's games. He has a ton of them and he's never home."

Hesitantly, I nod and mutter a quiet: "'Kay," but on the inside, I'm torn. I left all my games behind; the SEGA controllers were so bulky and uncomfortable to hold; and I was afraid to ask if she had a PS2 or just a regular Sony PlayStation.

...

Jen did _not_ have a PS2. Her husband drank too much and set their cat on fire. He listened to music too loud and drunkenly slurred negative comments that usually put my sister and her two kids in tears. I just kinda sat in the corner and pretended not to exist. Sometimes I'd take to Sonic or The Adventures of Mr Pac Man via SEGA. Or I'd play an original Crash Bandicoot on the PS.

I pretended not to notice when Chuck (Jen's husband and my brother-in-law) had girls over and slobbered all over them.

Jen pretended the same thing, and the kids were usually locked in their rooms.

And I pretended not the care that I was waking up and 4 AM and leaving at 5, walking to and arriving at the bus stop at 5:30... even though the bus wouldn't come 'til 7:30. (I'd rather stand at the bus stop, in the cold and without a jacket for two hours than be in that small, anger-filled house any longer than necessary.)

I pretended to be fine with going back to that school, where I was violently shoved down the stairs on my first day. Books were falling out of my hands more often than not, mainly because people are douchebags and have already reclaimed a liking to shoving me around.

It was humiliating. They fabricated their own reasons for my departure and return, and none of them were accurate. Still, I couldn't find it in me to correct them.

I let them think whatever horrors they wanted; maybe it would be enough to get them to back off and leave me alone.

But of course, I'm not that fortunate.

-Six fights later, I'm in a cast and on crutches. And no, I wasn't active in any of the brawls. Like always, I just rolled over and took it. And you can bet your ass that I refused the little help that was offered. Because anyone who offered help did it out of _obligation_ rather than kindness, and I wasn't taking handouts from people I hated.

So, with a backpack loaded with books that weighed me down, I hobbled on my crutches, fighting fatigue and barely making it from place to place... but I did it. And you can be sure that everyone who looked at me with any sort of pity got a nice middle finger shoved right in their faces.

_Yes, fuck them. It's their fault. Everything is their fault._

-I was miserable, yes, but even I could acknowledge that I wouldn't survive without people to back me up.

So I fell into the first crowd that would take me. And I became a leech, molding myself to fit their standards and then worming my way in, sucking them dry like a parasite.

_That's how I worked. In my mind, there was no other way. The world was cruel, and I was tired of being stepped on. _(In my mind, I'm referencing Linkin Park's song: Hit the Floor. "All I know is that all I want is to feel like I'm not stepped on.")

They were vicious with their words and twice as lethal with their fists, but I kept on their good side, going as far as to become a medium between them and L... because they wanted what he supplied.

In a way, I could be considered a dealer. Of course, the drugs were never mine, nor was the money, but I possessed each for brief periods of time.

I was the one leaning against the locker, messenger bag slung over my shoulder and a pencil behind my ear as I collected money from casual passersby. I pocketed the cash and waited until I could visit my parents for the weekend; then I invited L over to hang out. And of course, L would stay for an hour to keep up appearances, but he'd mainly just come to claim his money and drop off the drugs I was to distribute. And when Monday came, I'd be the most popular kid in school as I made menial deliveries in the halls, sometimes handing out packets or needles; other times handing out paper bags of things I didn't care to investigate.

And, at the end of each week, L started giving me a cut of his profit, but only when he was sure I wouldn't rat out our operation.

Twenty bucks here, fifty there. I became loaded with cash, and I hid it away for a rainy day.

The beatings I was usually subjected to were no longer an issue, except when I was bold enough to look pretty in public.

Because that's where my money went. I bought cosmetics. I bought skirts and blouses and heels. I splurged every penny I had on hair accessories and nail polish. And when I got it all home (Well, Jen's home) and in my room (rather, the back room where I slept on an air mattress), I sat in front of the large vanity mirror, and I made myself beautiful.

The foundation and blush and eye shadow and lipstick. They eyebrow tweezing and shaving and nail-painting. The hair combing and the practiced smiles... Yes, I looked gorgeous. Tucking myself like a real drag queen, putting on pantyhose and adopting my best outfits, I felt perfect.

For one brief moment of solitude, I could be someone special.

Nobody would understand how great it felt to bend God's will to fit my own standards.

To be who I wanted to be, rather than who the world expected me to be.

I wasn't just a boy who did boyish things and took care of the world. I was also the boy who wore girlish clothes and pranced in heels. I was someone pretty. I was someone special. I was exactly who I wanted to be.

And... I walked out of my room just like that.

Feeling like a princess, I walked right out in front of my sister and her husband and the kids, and I said: "I'm a girl."

And Jen laughed. And Chuck raised his beer, as if to toast the occasion. And the kids looked at me like I was crazy.

They acted like it wasn't a big deal, so I figured that maybe it wasn't so bad. I sat on the couch and we all watched movies together.

It almost felt like a real family. Like Full House or those other sitcoms meant to instill good morale.

For a moment, I was a kid receiving the family-bonding-time I'd always wanted but never thought exisited.

And everything could be perfect for that one moment.

But then that moment was gone.

Because, when the movie was over, I was asked to go to the store and pick up milk. The store was close by, so I walked... still looking as pretty as any Cover Girl.

And when I came back, I had the milk as Jen requested, but I was missing my shoes, my hair bow, and my pride. New bruises touched my skin and made me ugly. My hair was a mess and my makeup was smeared.

I felt terrible. And when I got back, I silently put the milk away and headed for the bathroom. I was too afraid to look at my reflection, so I just stripped and got in the shower.

When I got out, dried and dressed in boyish clothes, I took in my appearance.

And I hated it. I felt angry. I felt so hurt. And, I wanted so badly to hurt others... but I couldn't. Wanted to, but did not possess the drive to do so.

So, I did the one thing that made sense to me.

I called Mello.

Two rings later, I hang up and wait for him to call back. It takes longer than usual, but when he does return the call, I answer all too eagerly. His breath is labored and along with the usual greeting, I say: "sounds like you've run a marathon."

To this, he responds: "No, just the vacuum."

And despite everything I laugh... because it's awkward and I _know_ he doesn't ever touch the vacuum. He doesn't do his chores; he'd rather let a cup sit on his dresser and get moldy before he even takes it out of his room. -That's always my excuse for wanting to be with him so openly... because I would willingly pick up after him; I'd be there for him; and I'd do anything for him.

But this is not the matter I'm dwelling on, for once.

No. For once, I'm calling to confess: "Mells, I-I'm a girl."

And I can practically _hear_ his smile as he says: "Okay."

And I'm so happy to hear that simple response... because he's always so quick to accept me for who I am; always so quick to be understanding... when it's convenient. So, I'm flushed with relief as I jokingly ask if I'd make a pretty girl.

But he has a response to that as well, and it's surprising. "Matt, yeah, you'd make one hell of a girl."

And I'm smiling. "Thanks, Mello. Thanks. You have no idea how much that means to...-"

"But I could never love you or anything."

And my heart stops at his interruption. The blood in my veins seems to have run cold. And though I shouldn't have been bothered, I was. In fact, I was hurt. "Wha? Wait! What are you getting at?" I try to feign naiveté.

But he doesn't seem to comprehend that. Instead, he elaborates. "I can't love you because you're not a real girl, and I'm not a complete homo."

"What difference does it make what gender I am and what sexuality you are?" I'm feeling feisty, and for once... I want to argue with him. I want answers.

"You and I, we're friends, Matt. Fuck, we're practically family. You're like my gender-confused sibling or something. And I don't do incest."

My grip tightens on the phone, but I try not to let my emotions seep through the phone. "'Kay," is all I bother with.

Then an uncomfortable silence looms between us. I listen to his breathing and try to keep my own under control.

I almost want to hang up but, before I can even come up with an excuse, he asks: "How's school?"

And again, I laugh, but this time, it's bitter. "Fine. School's fine," I lie.

More silence. Then... "So, dating anyone?"

"A few people," I say. "Not at the same time or anything," I quickly defend.

"So... fuckin' anyone? Like, boys or girls?"

And now we're treading taboo territory. "I've tried some stuff," is what I say, but I don't want to go any further. "So, uh, what about you? Dating? Fucking?" Asking this, I feel sick. I'm afraid of the answer. I'm so fuckin' afraid to know. I don't want him to tell me.

I don't want to hear about his physical adventures into a lady's spawning den. No.

_Please, Mello, ignore my question. Just this once._

But he _does_ answer. "Nope. Not dating anyone. Never had sex of any kind. Complete virgin. In fact, when things are convenient and you're out of school, come see me. Move in with me, like we planned. Be my pet. Love me. And... I'll save all my firsts... for you. After all, you've already had my first kiss."

Hearing this, I can't move; I can't think. My lips tingle at the thought of us when we were little kids. I remember closing my eyes because of a dare. I remember pressing my hand to my mouth to serve as a temporary barrier. And I remember when that barrier was gone and my own mouth was chastely assaulted.

I smile unconsciously and fight the feelings that are battling about my wits. Because I love Mello. Mello wants me to be his first everything. Mello wants me to live with him... but... Mello can never love me.

He's so contradictive.

He's playing with my head. He has to be. No one is so cruel as to suggest what he's suggesting. The idea of loving and not being loved. So, so cruel.

...

I'd swallowed my pride and agreed to Mello's proposal. Then I called mom and begged her to let me come home. Because Chuck and Jen started fighting and things got much more violent than I was used to.

I was an emotional wreck.

But mom said no. She said for me to finish out the school year, and MAYBE I could move back in with her and dad and the kids for my Sophomore year.

...

I don't know how much time elapsed, but I continued to dress however I felt. I still wore boyish clothes, hoodies, striped shirts, game-themed t's, and jeans or whatever, but... I refused to let my ambitions be forced into oblivion. When I needed to look and feel pretty, fuck if I didn't apply a mask of makeup and heels and bedazzled clothing.

Because, after a while, I liked who I'd become, and I stopped giving a flying fuck about the world around me. (Well, except for Mello, but that is not the issue of focus.)

No, because even though Jen and Chuck's fighting was consistent, things changed.

Jen became absent; started having affairs with every prick that would have her. And Chuck drank more; partied more... And I started to drink with him.

Barely fifteen, almost sixteen, and I'm wolfing down Jager Bombs and shots of Tequila like nobody's business.

It's a party. It's fun. There's music and people and sometimes, an unplanned fuck.

It's horrible, but it's also morbidly hilarious.

Sex is something I actually detest. I hate it. Physical intimacy is taboo in my mind, but on a drunken whim, the mind and body betray rationality. The thin line between rape and consent becomes blurred, and I lose track of what I do and don't want.

I quit caring about my health and my dignity.

Aside from looking pretty and getting good grades, all that's left is the after party.

The blurred faces with dopey smiles and squinty eyes. The laughter and tears that comes with little provocation. The touches and kind gestures that turn manic and wild. The frenzied loss of clothing and gain of penetration. It's all one big mess of something I long to disapprove of, but won't quit.

And it takes me waking up in a stranger's home, blood on my face bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in my hand, to realize that I'd truly fucked up somewhere.

Thinking back, I remember when the most trivial matters were what color to paint with or what game to play. Thinking back, I remember hugs and kisses and sitting by my unconscious mother's side, waiting for her to acknowledge me; waiting for her to need me. Thinking back, I remember... that I had dreams and an aspiration.

I had a future.

And now, I could find nothing but faults and dead ends.

...and after getting up and re-clothing myself in jeans and a t-shirt that reek of alcohol, I find a phone... and I call Mello.

Two rings, and I hang up.

And nobody calls back.

-I find that I'm in the home of some guy named Tyler. He's not much older than I am, but I'm not comforted by that fact.

He takes me back to Jen and Chuck's place.

After a quick shower, I call Mello... again.

Two rings.

And nobody calls back.

And as I sit on the couch, being the only one awake at this ungodly hour, I pull my knees to my chest and look at the dust-covered SEGA. I realize how long it had been since I touched it. So I get up, and I go over to it, and I use my bare hand to wipe the dust away. My fingers press against the hard plastic of the consol..

Cleansing.

Purifying.

I clean it in ways that I will never be clean.

Because I'm dirty. Very dirty. Disgusting and misunderstood. I'm all out of sorts, confused and alone. Nobody's there to steer me straight. Nobody cares to see me spiraling out of control. Nobody's even there to return my call, or... haven't you noticed?

...

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**/Review./**


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